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A WHISTLING FARMER 




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A WHISTLING FARMER 



BY 

H. W. RANDOLPH 



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THE NEALE PUBLISHING COMPANY 

440 FOURTH AVENUE, NEW YORK 
MGMXX 



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Copyright, 1920, by 
The Neale Publishing Company 



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A WHISTLING FARMER 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 

Progress 11 

Farmer Jones 20 

The Better Land 23 

Forgotten 25 

The Brooklet and the Child 29 

The Thief of Time 31 

The Rolling Stone 35 

Temper 36 

The Way of the World 37 

The Streamlet 40 

The Indian and the Buffalo 42 

Jim Johnson and His Wife 47 

The Death of John Barleycorn 50 

God's Country 51 

Waiting 65 

Destiny 65 

The Fairy 67 

The Sower 73 

The True Source 73 

The Traveling Salesman 74 

Dishonor 79 

Burn's Statue 79 

The Proposal 80 

The Ships, they All Go Down 83 

The Death of the Flowers 84 

In After Years 85 

Rock Me to Sleep 87 

Venus 89 

The Wedding Ring of Charley Ox 92 

The Trees 95 

The Warning 97 

Johnny Jolt 99 

Pleas Prewett's Watch 101 

7 



8 Contents 

PAGE 

The Squieeels in the Forest 108 

Hope 143 

Is THIS THE Land 143 

There's Life in the Tassel 145 

Bob White 146 

The Stolen Baby 152 

Mary Glover 154 

I Still Miss Thee 158 

Tired Out 159 

The Bent of All Things 160 

My Country 161 

Goodness 162 

The Columbia River 162 

Execution 164 

I AM A Woman Still 164 

Life 166 

Friendship 167 

These Three 168 

The Battle of Bunker Hill 169 

Meanness Shows 174 

The Laws that Are 176 

The Nightingale 177 

The Spirit 178 

The Goddess of Liberty 179 

Crossing the Delaware ....181 

The Intent is All 183 

The Better Life 184 

The Matterhorn 185 

The Witches of Salem Town 186 

The Ways of God 187 

A Bad Exchange 188 

The Granting Spring 190 

I Love 191 

A Hopeless Bachelor 194 

Homesick 195 

The Babe in the Tree 195 

Bedbugs 196 

The Hidden Goal 198 

The Storm 199 



Contents 9 

PAGE 

Bessie Bounton 200 

Elsie Clark 203 

The Leaves that Fall 204 

The Pleasant Way 204 

Advice 205 

Dorothy Barfoote 206 

Sometime 216 

What's the Trouble 216 

To a Dead Fly 217 

A Passing World 221 

Avis Linnell 222 

War 224 

Out for a Ramble 226 

Rebuked 227 

The Goddess op Hope .* . . 232 

In the Spring 233 

The Mystery of Man 235 

A Borrowed Tool 238 

Brothers in Nature 239 

Old Dapple Gray 240 

The Cliff Dwellers 241 

The Unknown 243 

Going Back Home * 243 

The Source 244 

My Daily Prayer 246 

The Greed of One Man 247 

At the Front 248 

The Twig that's Bent 248 

Had I A Wing 249 

The Fairy 250 

The Palace Queen 261 

Why Not 263 

Faith 264 

Hello! In the Morning 265 

The Lady I Love 266 

True Religion 267 

The Orchards of Our Youth 268 

A Foundling 270 

Promptness 271 



10 Contents 

PAGE 

Here and There 272 

A Whistling Farmer 272 

When We Lived on the Farm 277 

Migratory Man 278 

The Meadow Lark 279 

Daybreak 280 

The Heirs . 281 

Kate Shelly ^ . . . 398 

My Heart and I 2,99 

The Soldiers Farewell 301 

The Coming Age 303 

The Things that Live 305 

At Rest 305 

Dissatisfied I . . . 306 

Beyond 307 

The Wreck at Eden, Colorado 308 

Carmel by the Sea 311 

The Fleeting Day 312 

The Home 312 

Poesy 314 

Capito Hill Statue 314 

Compensation 315 

My Darling Jim 316 

Our Old Home 319 

Dreams 322 

The One to Choose 323 

The Bird 324 

My Friend 327 

The Aged Traveler 332 

The Rose 333 

Salinda Hanlon's Song 334 

Old Lige Reams ^ . 335 

The Civil Engineer 350 

A Tragedy of Hudson Bay 354 

My Dog and I 362 

What Does it Mean to be an American .... 378 

The Plea of Arthur Alden 379 

Memories 388 

The Maid in Blue 390 



A WHISTLING FARMER 



PROGRESS 

To gratify a passion 

That is born within the soul, 
And finds its sweetest pleasures 

In a long and pleasant stroll 
Through the varied fields of Nature, 

Whose mysteries unfold 
A language that is written in the rocks; 

To leave behind the haunts of men. 

And meditate, and dream. 
Or formulate some daring plan. 

And fortify the scheme. 
Or scale, perchance, the lofty peaks, 

Or loiter by the stream, 
In communion with the worlds that lie beyond; 

I went walking in the country, 

In the evening cool and still. 
When the sun yet threw his shadow 

From the mountain and the hill; 
But I tarried long to ponder 

O'er an old decaying mill 
That had ground in the time of our fathers. 

And its water wheel was silent. 
Where the stream once swirled and hissed, 
II 



12 A Whistling Farmer 

And I wondered if the farmer, 

With his heavy load of grist, 
And the crowds around the river 

Are now as sadl}^ missed 
As they were in the days of our childhood. 

And its roads were long deserted; 

And the dam was washed away; 
And the mill a mass of ruins. 

Where the children came to play; 
And the miller, — aye, the miller. 

He had slept for many a day 
In some forgotten grave in the churchyard. 

In a spirit of adventure 
I had stolen through its door, 

That had fallen from its hinges now 
These many years before ! 

And here I heard the saddest whisper, 
''Nevermore, and nevermore, — 

Nevermore, for the mill and the miller!" 

And I found the ancient wreckage 

Of the hopper and the burrs 
That had wrought so close together 

All along the passing years. 
And I said, within me, truly 

They both deserve our tears, 
As a link, in this chain of evolution. 

And musing in its window. 

With my arms upon its sill, — 

A-drowsing o'er the river 
And the ruins of the mill, — 

I saw the gulf that lies between 
The sleeper on the hill. 

And the being that we worship as our God. 



A Whistling Farmer 13 

Like some vision onward sweeping, 

Now, I saw this homely cast: 
Here, the miller stood before me, 

And there, went hurrying past. 
Anon, his work vras finished. 

And his mill was closed at last; 
But time was ever busy with decay. 

And I felt a tinge of sorrow. 

As I groped amid the gloom. 
Where dissolution's slimy hand 

Was found in every room. 
And while I through its portal swept. 

To greet the world abloom. 
And ponder o'er the feeble works of man, 

I heard the calling of the quail. 

Along the silent wood, 
Where the mother sallies forth 

With her merry little brood, 
Through the yard and through the garden 

Where the miller's cabin stood, 
In an age of the older pioneers. 

And here the two creators left 

For all a passing gleam : 
In fell decay the one, I found, 

Was drooping with its beam; 
The other smiled at tide and time, 

While pointing to the stream 
That glides along forever in its youth. 

And now, it seems, some mystery 

Had wrought this tragic scene, 
For, just beyond the river, lay 

A valley, rich and green, 



14 A Whistling Farmer 

With every indication there 
That life was just as keen 
As it was in the days of the miller. 

Its golden han^est fields a-sweep; 

The tinkling of the bell, 
And cozy cots still nestled deep 

Beneath the shad}^ swell, 
And, oh, so many things I saw 

That all must know so well, 
In a long and happy life upon the farm. 

Out where the noble forest trees 

Their giant branches fling. 
And music from the songsters oft 

Along the valleys ring. 
Embellishing the trend of life, 

Where man is ever king, — 
The thought, the deed, the destiny of all. 

Bewitching as the blushing rose 
That's fawning in the June, — 

Enraptured as a mother's love. 
When baby learns to croon, — 

Is the garner of the harvest there 
Beneath the harvest moon, 

A-bringing in the fruitage of the fields. 

The fragrance of its meadow lands; 

The curlew's loud refrain, 
The swiftness of the ardent mate, 

The nesting down the lane, 
Recalling hopes of other years, — 

But death, alas, in vain, 
A weeping willow's trembling o'er her grave. 



A Whistling Farmer 15 

And while amid this peaceful rest, 

The shades of evening fall, 
And higher mount the shadow-lines 

Upon the cotter's wall, 
A hush of silence swings afar 

And hovers over all 
The fields and lanes and herds of homing kine. 

And, strolling up the river here, 

Along its winding shore, 
I caught the faintest murmur of 

Some long and distant roar; 
And soon I gained an eminence 

And saw the waters pour 
From a dam as high as the Niagara. 

And, wondering, full long I sought 

The miller and his mill, 
And close I studied evers^ foot 

Of ground along the hill; 
But nothing, save some wires 

That were singing dirges still 
For those who are gone now forever — 

And here, I found the hand of progress. 

Not the miller's wooden wheel. 
Nor the slow and tedious waiting, 

For the flour and the meal, 
But the strong and steady working 

Of the swiftly flying steel 
That strangled the mill and the miller. 

Of former things, so changed they were, 

I scarcely found a trace : 
The crudeness of the pioneer. 

The contour of his face. 



1 6 A Whistling Farmer 

The modern man had come along 

To ornament the place: 
The builder, with his trowel and his square. 

With admiration deep I saw 

The wonders he displays, 
Nor time, nor space may fathom it, 

So wonderful its maze. 
While leaping from its dark abode 

In thunderbolts ablaze, 
It's startling all the thinkers of the age. 

Unfolding now, through vistas dim 

A brilliant city lay. 
With factories of vast extent 

Along the ocean's quay; 
And flags from every nation far, 

A-flutter in its bay. 
To traffic, and to trade around the globe, — 

From Europe, and the Orient, 

And Nippon's flowery strand. 
And countries of the Occident 

Where Russian shores expand, 
And all the islands of the seas. 

And each, and every land. 
Where man has found the pleasures of a home. 

With endless toil he puts to flight, 

Those puny efforts old, 
He's yonder, weighing out the stars. 

Or dashing for the pole, 
'Mid frightful storms and temperatures 

This daring, spirit bold — 
Goes on and on, regardless of the past. 



A Whistling Farmer 17 

His rifle's swept the bow away, 

The helmet, and the lance; 
And woe betide the noble steeds 

That champ the bit and prance ! 
The jungles and the lion's den, 

And all that vast expanse. 
Will be fruitful as the gardens by and by. 

To mark the spot where eminence 

Lies slumbering in the dust, 
He lightly chips the stone away, 

That hides the marble's bust, 
That points us to a heritage, 

Bequeathed us as a trust 
By those who fell upon some field of strife. 

And, he apes the sprite that deftly spreads 

The velvet o'er the flower, 
And notes the thread the spider spins 

Around her dainty bower, 
And weaves away the whole night long 

Beneath this subtle power 
That dissipates the darkness, like the sun. 

The boundless forest fades away, 

The marshy moors are drained. 
The vineyard's flinging back its smiles 

The pruning knife has trained. 
And that which he has failed to trace 

Is brushed aside and chained, 
Awaiting yet, the fullness of its time. 

Existing in a thousand shades 

Of majesty and art. 
He leaps the most stupendous streams. 

And stabs the mountain's heart, 



1 8 A Whistling Farmer 

And piles Ms wares of industry 

Upon the trader's mart, 
To gratify the yearnings of our race. 

And here, among the minds of men, 
I've seen this forward leap, — 

This spirit, still unsatisfied. 
That ever slumbers deep, 

And all the nations of the earth 
Arousing, as from sleep, 

Exulting in a hope that never dies. 

And I've found it all around me: 

In the mower, as it mows. 
And the language of the planter 

That is talking as it goes. 
And the waters of the river, 

With its whisper as it flows, 
In speaking of its growth upon the ocean 

And I've found it in the reaper. 
That is binding up the grain, 

And the power of the engine. 
And the beauty of the train. 

And in that mighty motor, 
That we call the human brain. 

As it labors for the betterment of man. 

And I've found it in the cottage. 
So inviting, with its flowers. 

And in the blessings that are born 
Of labor's shorter hours, 

And the meetings, and the greetings. 
Out among the leafy bowers. 

Where joy abideth ever in the country. 



A Whistling Farmer 19 

And l\e found it in the buildings 

For the orphans and the blind, 
And the soldier, and the sailor, 

And the weak and feeble mind, 
And in a host of charities, 

For which the world has pined 
Since time leads us back to antiquity. 

And IVe found it in the trimness 

Of the arbor and the lawn. 
Like a hope that springeth ever 

At the coming of the dawn. 
And in that peaceful slumber 

When the working day is gone, 
And the toiler sinks to rest among his family. 

And I've found it in a struggle 

For the freedom of the mind, 
That has wounded superstition now 

And left it, faint, behind. 
And ushered in an era, too. 

Of marvels more sublime 
Than anything the ancient Records show. 

And I've found it in the factory, 

In the shuttle and the loom. 
That are turning out the fabrics 

For the bride, and for the groom, 
And it's always stamped with modesty 

Upon the cheeks that bloom; 
For labor is the savior of the world. 

And it's present on the ocean, 

In its flight around the earth, — 
And the hamlet and the village 

That are springing into birth, — 



20 A Whistling Farmer 

Yet, many of our countrymen 

Still fail to know its worth; 
For progress is the hope of future ages. 

EoU on and on, thou blessed source, 

Of endless progress, roll! 
That all who be may find at last 

A culminating goal 
In some sequestered vale of death 

That liberates the soul, 
To rise again upon a higher plane. 



FARMER JONES 

My wife she makes her coffee fine, 
And I just drink it down like wine ; 
And so I love this helper mine, 
Because she's sweet as honey. 

And we got married long ago. 
How long? Let's see! Well, I don't know,- 
For time glides by with such a flow 
When two are hap'ly mated. 

And still it seems, since now and then 
The years are round, 'bout six or ten, 
But I'd not wage a penny when 
We stood before the altar. 

And we've some children, — three or four, — 
I think that's right; but I'm not sure. 
Hey there, you kids, behind the door, 
Come out and let me count you ! 



A Whistling Farmer 21 

There's Mat and May and Till and Ted, 
And twins upstairs that's still in bed, 
And what's that, Molly, what you said 
About the ones that's absent? 

^h}^ yes, that's sol There's some at school, 
There's John and Jay and Jude and Jule, 
And Helen here upon her stool 
To mend the children's clothing. 

And, oh, my heart, there 's some more still : 
There's Ben and Gabe and Frank and Will, 
That early went our ranks to fill, 
And fight the German nation. 

NoAv that seems strange as strange can be, 
But I've not counted them, you see. 
Since our dear sons went 'er the sea 
To spread the cause of freedom. 

But then, of course, we're growing old; 
And yet such things are needless told, — 
For why of late, our feet get cold. 
When wife and I go riding. 

But we don 't care ; we 're happy still. 
When death comes by and leaves a chill. 
For, she and I have had our fill. 
Of life's exquisite pleasures. 

And yet we're strong, — both she and I, — 
In limb, and nerve, and sparkling eye, 
And, well, we know the reason wh}^ : 
It's love for one another. 

And in the midst of all that's wrong, 
This love has been our hobby long. 



22 A Whistling Farmer 

Assisted by some dear old song, 
They've bound our hearts together. 

And in this field of changeless right 
In which we've found so much delight, 
Preserving still with all our might, 
We stand upon our honor. 

And pray, what more may mortals do 
Than fearlessly to thus pursue 
The ways of peace, — and justice, too, — 
That fail so oft our neighbor? 

These flour sacks and hams of meat. 
And things our soldiers love to eat, 
'Fore God, we think, they're far more sweet 
Than any prayer that's offered. 

The golden rule's the rule for us, 
For oft it smothers down a fuss. 
And when it don't, we take a buss, 
And jolly on together. 

And so we love our fellow mgin. 
And do for him whate'er we can. 
Because we think the better plan 
Extends beyond the fam'ly. 

And of the sick, and of the poor, 
Who knock and knock upon our door. 
Sometimes almost a half a score 
Depart and leave their blessings. 

And thus it's been since we were wed; 
The worthy ones are always fed. 
And early then we're off to bed 
And lose ourselves in slumber. 



A Whistling Farmer 23 

With no regrets for what we've done, 
We calmly slumber, every one, 
Till mounts again the rising sun, 
Beyond the distant mountains. 

And so we've lived an honest life, — 
.Myself, my children, and my wife, — 
And by such means we've buried strife 
Too deep for resurrection. 

And as we've lived we hope to die, 
Nor do you need to ask us why, 
For we expect some by and by 
Will find us blessed forever. 

Out yonder where the wild woods wave. 
And cawing crows and ravens rave. 
Some day you '11 find our humble grave : 
Asleep, — beside our children. 

And what may lie beyond that room. 
Wherein no flowers ever bloom, — 
Beyond, afar, beyond the tomb, — 
We leave this with the Master. 



THE BETTER LAND 

Addressing its mate, a little bird said: 

"My dearest, let's fly far away, far away, 

To a region that's covered all over with bread, 

Where pleasures abide all the day, all the day; 

''Where the shot of the hunter is scarce ever heard, 
And the hawks never hide in the sky, 



24 A Whistling Farmer 

Oh, it's a blessed retreat for each little bird, — 
It's the home of the sweet by and by. 

"Where the storms never rise, and the floods never 
come, 

And there's never a thought of the drouth. 
In that haven of rest, where the wild pheasant drums, 

In that beautiful land of the south. 

"Where the sun rises bright in the soft, gentle mom, 
Bringing pleasures that few will believe. 

And it sparkles all day o'er the wide fields of corn. 
Till it sinks to its rest in the eve." 

"What! Exchange our old home and our glade in 
the hills 

For a sunshine that 's bright in the morn ; 
And broad flowing rivers and murmuring rills 

For a few paltry acres of corn? 

" I 'd fight to the death for the 1 and of my birth. 
With a beak that is strong in its might ; 

For all other lands are a pigmy of worth 
Wlien this one has vanished from sight. 

"There's the nest that we built in yon tall swinging 
tree. 

In the heyday of life 's early morn ; 
And my heart ever leaps at the sight of the sea, 

And the place where our birdlings were born. 

"And here's where I welcomed ray first peep of day, 
And here's where I first made a flight; 

And here I shall live till the ^Master shall say: 
'Your evening has merged into night. ' " 



A Whistling Farmer 25 



FORGOTTEN 

Near a cove along the mountains, — 

And a river deep and bold 
Where the dashings of the fountains 

Carry down their sands of gold, — 
There's a valley, like a treasure 
Lying prone beneath the sky, 
"Where the toilers smile with pleasure 

'er their fields of corn and rye ; 
And a mansion, decked with beauty, 

Like the smiling of a bride. 
In the autumn of the season 
And the quiet eventide. 

In the quiet eventide it was, 

In the quiet eventide, — 
In the autumn of the season 
And the quiet eventide. 

And here a man was walking out, 

Slowly walking to and fro. 
And a-walking and a-talking sad 

In muffled murmurs low. 
And then an inspiration came 

And his thoughts began to flow, 
A-thinking in, and drinking in, 

The times of long ago. 
And near him now departed friends 

Went strolling down the lane. 
And he himself was sound asleep, — 
A little child again. 

A little child again he was, 

A little child again, — 
And he himself was sound asleep 
A little child again. 



26 A Whistling Farmer 

And, then, in looking backward, 

He wondered long to know. 
How time had fled so rapidly 

In walking to and fro; 
And what he'd done along the years, 

That are leading to the shore. 
Where time and opportunities 

Alas ! will be no more. 
Another turn, upon life's road. 

And he, a full-grown man, 
Had seen so many cherished hopes 
All wrecked upon the strand, 

All wrecked upon the strand they were, 

All wrecked upon the strand, — 
He'd seen so many cherished hopes 
All wrecked upon the strand. 

And when he turned him round about, — 

An old and feeble man, — 
And sought within his cloistered home 

To consummate his plan, 
Much proof he found, in looking o'er 

His records, dim and old, — 
Ambition rife, had wrecked his life. 

For preference and gold. 
And when the last turn in his road 

"Was breaking on his sight, 
With years of youth and jollity, 
A-merging into night, 

A-merging into night, so dark, 

A-merging into night, — 
With years of youth and jollity 
A-merging into night; 

'Twas then he called his friends around, — 
In whispers soft and low, — 



A Whistling Farmer 27 

And he told tliem he had troubles that 

The world should never know; 
But in the evening of his life 

He had evolved a plan, 
To scatter wide his millions for 

The betterment of man. 
''This guilty gold, and stocks and bonds, 

And fields of corn and cotton. 
And must I leave them all behind, 
To die and be forgotten? 
To die and be forgotten here, 

To die and be forgotten, — 
And must I leave them all behind 
To die and be forgotten?" 

And while the shades of evening crept 

Around him, cold and still. 
He sought behind his bolted dooi^. 

The making of his will. 
But, suddenly, some steps he heard, 

Come stealing down the hall, 
And open flung his door wide. 

T^ith dark, and dismal scrawl : 
''No lock nor key can hinder me!'* 

The phantom said, and bowed. 
Then in its place were crape and lace, 
A coffin and a shroud, 

A coffin and a shroud were there, 

A coffin and a shroud, — 
Then in its place were crape and lace, 
A coffin and a shroud. 

"Ho, guardsmen, friends, and servants all! 

There's thieves within my room. 
They come and go, like shadows, though. 

As noiseless as the tomb." 



28 A Whistling Farmer 

''Where, master, where?" "Why, there and 
there ! 
See, the leader wears a frown. 
Advance, my guardsmen, fearlessly, — 

Advance, and cut them down!" 
They bore him to his chamber like 

Some slow, and solemn pall, 
Then all the guards, and servants, too, 
Went mutt 'ring down the hall, 

A-mutt'ring down the hall, they went. 
A-mutt'ring down the hall, — 

Then all his guards, and servants, too. 
Went mutt 'ring down the hall. 

"Remorse," he cried, "remorse at last,— 

Remorse, for life gind death! 
My feeble pulse, my failing heart, 

Alas, my fleeting breath!" 
For he had seen, upon the hill. 

His richly tinseled tomb. 
And guards about its iron rail 
Where gaudy flowers bloom. 
But while the throng still surged along. 

Admiring much the scene, 
He heard no sighs for him who lies 
Asleep beneath the green. 

Asleep beneath the green out theio 

Asleep beneath the green, — 
He heard no sighs for him who lies 
Asleep beneath the green. 

No more, I see him walking now, 

A-walking to and fro, 
A-walking and a-talking now 

In muffled murmurs low; 



A Whistling Farmer 29 

Nor is there aught to stir him now, 
And cause his thoughts to flow, 
A-thinking in and drinking in 

The times of long ago, 
Nor does he see departed friends 

Go strolling down the lane, 
For he has fallen fast asleep, 
A little child again. 

A little child again, alas! 
A little child again, — 
For he has fallen fast asleep 
A little child again. 

To shadow forth the sum 

Of man's existence here, 
A brain was given him 
To think, and conjure up 
The servitude of thought. 

A beacon, as it were, — 
A beacon light to flood 
The pathways of the mind. 

Along the road to where. 



THE BROOKLET AND THE CHILD 

When the sunshine of the morning 

Comes a-bounding o'er the hills. 
And youthful hearts are swept away 

By Nature's subtle thrills. 
In the summer of the season. 

When the songster sings his lay, 
A little child had wandered off. 

Along the branch to play. 
And as she loitered on its brink. 

Intent upon her theme, 



30 A Whistling Farmer 

I heard the prattle of her talk 
About the passing stream. 

"How bright your tiny waters glide, 

How wonderfully fair; 
And oft I dream of you by night 

Above our winding stair. 
And won't you tell me, little brook, 

Tell me the reason why. 
That you were made in such a way 

That you can never die; 
While I am born of tender flesh, 

And flourish for a day, 
And, like the stubble of the fields, 

I wither and decay? 
And why should this, my portion be, 

And all my pleasures sever. 
While night and day continually 

You babble on forever/' 
''Nay, nay, not true, my little miss,'' 

The brooklet made reply, 
''The Lord hath made us much alike, 

You'll learn this by and by. 
And still, a change will come to you. 

As one will come to me. 
When I am buried deep at last 

Beneath the briny sea. 
And while I sleep a season there. 

Embraced within its wave. 
You, too, will find a resting-place. 

Within your narrow grave. 

"But we will rise again, sweet child, 
I, when drifting in my cloud, 
And you, immensity may seek, 
Untrammeled by your shroud. 



A Whistling Farmer 31 

This long refreshing sleep is but 

A blessing in disguise, — 
A screen that hides the missing link, 

That penetrates the skies. 
Have faith, my little sister, faith. 

The laws of growth must win, 
And in some future summertime. 

We two will meet again. 
Not here, along this shelving bank, 

Beneath this tangled heather. 
But yonder, in the depths of space, 

Among the endless ether. 
And while I grace some setting sun, 

With tints of purple grand, 
I'll watch for you, my little friend. 

Out in your spirit land. 
Now, go and join j^our mates again 

In prank of childish play. 
My master's calling for me loud, — 

My master, gravity. 
And seek the broader realm of life, 

Where love and hope abides 
For naught can change your destiny, 

God's providence provides. 



THE THIEF OF TIME 

''To-MORROv^," says the thief of time, 
'* To-morrow, — that will do." 
So every age and every clime 
These fallacies pursue. 

Her work we see in many things 
Around us every day, 



32 A Whistling Farmer 

And unto all, she sweetly sings 
The summertime away. 

But unto some, — the very wise, — 

She passes out of sight. 
Where she can flaunt her thin disguise. 

She takes the most delight. 

The indolent have been her field 

Of operations long ; 
And here she dearly loves to wield 

Her tantalizing song. 

Go, rouse the sluggard from his sleep, 

The idler from his play; 
And listen, while their murmurs sweep, 

In cadences away. 

The farmer says his grain can wait, 

And off he goes to town; 
The watcher slumbers by his gate; 

The maiden, by her gown. 

The angler's nodding o'er his rod, — 

Some turtle steals his baitj 
When evening comes, he'll homeward plod. 

Deploring, loud, his fate. 

"To-morrow," said the thief of time, 
"To-morrow, — that will do," 
So every age and every clime 
These fallacies pursue. 

A messenger, upon his steed. 
Went dashing far and wide. 

Nor did he stay, nor stop to plead. 
But ever, loudly cried: 



A Whistling Farmer 33 

A flood, a flood! — an awful flood 

Comes dashing down the vale! 
Be quick to fly, or else your blood 

Will crimson wide its trail. ' ' 

But some, they tarried for the show, 

To watch the waters rave. 
And down the churchyard, in a row, 

You '11 find them in their grave. 

Ihey heard the song the siren sings, 

And prone they were to list. 
And beggars oft, as well as kings, 

Are numbered with the missed. 

I saw a j^outh of noble mien, 

Retiring for the night. 
And through another window pane, 

A trembling maiden white. 

In agitation, to and fro, 

She paced, alone, the floor. 
And then she turned, with mutters low, 

The lock upon her door. 

Adown the pathway, — swiftly now, 

The hour was growing late, — 
And then she paused and made a vow. 

And slammed aloud the gate. 

The moon rose o'er the distant hills, — 

A softly brilliant moon, — 
But love had fled for one who thrills 

A lady's heart in June. 

The flowers that her lover bought 
Lay wilting in his room. 



34 A Whistling Farmer 

Until the lady, whom he sought, 
In disappointed gloom 

Burned all the letters he had sent, 

To light her kitchen fire ; 
And now his days and nights are spent 

In dissipating ire. 

For she who waited for him long 
Could wait for him no more, — 

With cheery music and the song, 
His rapping on the door. 

And thus it was the deed was done. 

Without a word of strife; 
And promptness here, again, had won 

A true, and noble wife. 

Like streams that turn the wheels around 
With constancy and power, 

His rival came and searched the town 
For every fragrant flower. 

And these he laid upon the arm. 

Of one he loved so well, 
With what result and lasting charm, 

I scarcely need to tell. 

The waters went upon their way. 

The mill was left behind, 
And long the years, and sad the day. 

The millers ceased to grind. 

And — so it is : " To-morrow yet, — 
To-morrow," says the thief. 

*' To-morrow, with its sad regret. 
To-morrow, with its grief!" 



A Whistling Farmer 35 



THE ROLLING STONE 

Down the brooklet, down the river, 
Down the ages that have flown, 

Rolling over, rolling over. 
Once I met a little stone. 

Down the mountain, down the valley, 
Down the sloping of the hill, — 

Always plodding on its journey. 
Always rolling over still. 

'Whither now? I pray you tell me. 

Every movement means a loss, 
Why not stop and rest forever 

Here, beneath this golden moss?" 

Aye, my friend," replied the bowlder, 
"There's a being wiser still, 

Than His creature, who has asked me, 
Why I'm rolling down the hill. 

'Hearest thou yon warbling songster? 

He but answers with his song 
The command of his Creator: 

'Move along, sir, move along.' 

* Yonder sweep His starry systems ; 

Here's the motion of His wave, 
See, the Master's moving ever. 

There's no rest, this side the grave. 



36 A Whistling Farmer 

*' Here's His spring, beside the pond, sir, 
Gusliing forth with sparkling life, 
And whither now ? glass of water. 
For your daughter and your wife. 

"Wisdom lieth all around us, 

Ever sounding loud her gong, 
God hath spoken. Why upbraid him? 
Move along, sir, move along 1 

''I'm a bowlder, you're my brother. 
Both are subject to His laws. 
And I warn you, my kinsman. 
Nature never seeks a pause. 

"And, with all there is of motion, 
God is wonderfully strong, 
And He's told us, through creation: 
'Move along, sir, move along!' " 



TEMPER 

If temper in your friend should show, 

Go thou straightway and bow to him, 
For temper, let me tell you so. 

Is well-nigh all there is to him. 
For what is man without this flame, 

That ever burns its way along? — 
Just rotten wood and flimsy shame. 

Unless he's strong, extremely strong. 
In temper, then, go seek your prize. 

And gladly hail it with delight. 
For in this principle there lies 

The luminosity of might. 



A Whistling Farmer 37 



THE WAY OF THE WORLD 

I SUPPOSE you've heard this story 

With its never-ending din, 
Like some goblin, gray and hoary, 

Ever trying to break in. 
Yes, you've doubtless heard it often, 

Knocking, knocking, on your door. 
But, for fear some one's forgotten, 

I am telling it once more. 

Billy Bottle had a brother, 

And this brother owned a mill, — 
Bang and rattle down the valley, 

Where the tumbling waters spill. 
And their father, back in childhood. 

He had taught his boys how, — 
One, to saw, and saw the lumber. 

And the other one to plow. 
And so, Johnny, Johnny Bottle, — 

He was master of his mill, 
And his brother, Billy Bottle, 

Owned a villa o'er the hill. 
And they prospered in their business, 

With their labor and their trade. 
And they always banked some money. 

Every venture that they made. 
But now Johnny, he grew restless, — 

As a miller often will, — 
With this clatter, hang, and rattle, 

That is ever at it still. 
And the trees, they grew so slowly. 

That in time, it was, he found, 



3^ A Whistling Farmer 

That the farmers made more money, 

From the tillage of the ground. 
So he went and told his brother, 

How he longed to get away, 
And be mowing of the meadow. 

And a-tossing of the hay. 
And they talked the matter over, 

As two brothers often will, 
But Billy saw tke farm alone, 

Not the miller and his mill. 



And while he led his brother out 

Far strolling arm in arm, 
Of this and that, in glowing terms. 

He told about the farm. 
Now, these brothers had an uncle, 

Isaac Walton, if you will. 
Who had often looked with pleasure 

On the profits of the mill; 
And this uncle was a farmer. 

And he owned a strapping farm, 
That was ample with its acres 

Any ruralist to charm. 
And its richness and its fruitage 

Furnished many with a theme; 
And its buildings and its beauty 

Were as haunting as a dream; 
And his success was so noted 

That no longer was it told, 
''Look at Walton! See the wizard. 

Every venture turns to gold." 
And ere long these two had traded, 

Consunmiating every wish; 
So the one could raise potatoes, 

And the other one could fish. 



A Whistling Farmer 39 

And Johnny told his wife of this, 

When he got home again, 
And danced him all around the room. 

And brought his fiddle in, 
And played ' ' Old Arkansas, ' ' he did. 

With all his youthful skill. 
Because he thought he'd made a hit 

In trading off his mill. 
And Walton bought a lot of hooks, 

A basket, and some line, 
And smiled so much his friends declared : 

"It's fishing on his mind!" 
But when at last he'd settled down. 

It wasn't very long, 
Until his neighbors all could see 

The mill was going wrong. 
And oft it was the water wheel. 

Or else the saw to file, 
And Walton's face began to change, — 

A-wearing off the smile. 



And yet he had a longing still. 

Expressive of a wish, 
And then he'd take his hook and line 

And saunter off to fish. 
And time it was, and time again. 

When Walton was away. 
The sawlog men would come to mill 

And wait for him all day. 
And so it was he lost his trade, — 

The custom of his mill, — 
Because the fish will better bite 

When everything is still. 
And Johnny, too, his friends all saw 

He couldn't farm at all; 



40 A Whistling Farmer 

For once lie went to planting corn, 

Commencing in the fall. 
And yet, this man, he knew it all 

Around his mill and saw, 
But on the farm, he spent some years 

In learning gee! and haw! 
And some declare he's often seen, 

When days are warm £ind still. 
To take his chair out on the porch 

And listen to the mill. 
Or while he sits around his home, 

His mind seems all a blank. 
And loud he plays the fiddle while 

The weeds are growing rank. 

So these traders both got worsted, 

As such traders always will. 
When the farmer leaves his farming. 

And the miller leaves his mill. 
And the mill lies there in ruins, 

On the margin of the stream, 
And the fields where Walton labored 

They are nothing but a dream. 
So I leave this lesson with you, 

For there 's many trading still, — 
Trading, trading, many trading, 

For a poorhouse o 'er the hill. 



THE STREAMLET 

Murmur on along the valley. 
Little streamlet, murmur on. 

Graceful flitting in your sally. 
Till the gladsome day is gone. 



A Whistling Farmer 41 

Over rocks and riffles gliding, 

As you ever onward pour, 
Here in peeping, there in hiding, 

'Neath the shelving on the shore. 
And, to burnish off some gravel, 

Hesitating oft awhile. 
Then continuing your travel, 

Playful as a little child. 
Here you eddy, almost creeping. 

Scarcely moving on at all. 
Then you're dashing, or you're leaping 

O'er some tiny waterfall. 
And how I envy all your sweetness, 

As you gently onward glide. 
First at leisure, then in fieetness. 

Past the charming countryside. 
Flashing out to glimpse some lover, 

Mumbling blessings on his soul, 
Then retreating, swift, to cover. 

Lest he should thy smile behold. 
Past the hamlet and the city, 

Growing deeper, growing strong. 
Slowly changing from thy ditty. 

Into louder, coarser song. 
Past the workman, at his labor. 

Past the beauty-spots of worth, 
Ever helpful as a neighbor. 

Barring not the best of earth. 
Always pleasant, always singing 

Songs of cheerfulness, thou art, 
And to others ever bringing, 

Gladness to a longing heart. 
Circling on, and on for ever, 

Down, and downward still you go. 
Soon to join some stately river. 

And to mingle with its flow. 



42 A Whistling Farmer 



THE INDIAN AND THE BUFFALO 

And are these all that's left of thee, 
These fragments of antiquity, 
This wily bull, that breathes his last, 
Symbolic of an age that's past, 
And he who stoops o'er thee alone. 
Past monarch of an ancient throne, — 
This savage here, who seems to see 
The storm that has o'erwhelmed thee. 
And does he smile at thy last breath, 
That ends thy wild career in death? 
Nay, nay, indeed ; no smile is there, 
For in this picture he must share 
This selfsame fate, some afterwhile, 
That robs him of the faintest smile, 
And throws a frown across his brow. 
And holds him dumb, and speechless now. 

And from these plains, far stretching on. 
These two companions now are gone 
From every hill and every shore 
That knew them once, but nevermore 
Shall hear again their mighty tread; 
For all of these long since have fled 
The beauty-spots of plain and crest, 
Wide sprinkled o'er the boundless West. 
And where the torrent wears its cleft, 
Some bleaching bones alone are left. 
Through all the stretches of our land, 
And far beyond the Rio Grande; 
And eastward yet, along the shore. 
Where the Atlantic's doleful roar 



A Whistling Farmer 43 

Sounds like a dirge, when storms arise, 
And chant their requiem to the skies. 

And so they're gone, these tribes of yore, 
From every mountain, stream, and shore. 
This savage, with his tattered tent. 
That claimed this wealthy continent. 
And where it dwelt, — this savage race, — 
Another's come to take its place. 
And why this change, this wondrous change ? 
To wild crude men it seemeth strange. 
But in our own discerning mind. 
We see a providence that's kind. 

And is it best that we are here, 
To break and till, and reap the mere, 
For other ones, whose sterile ground, 
In regions vast, are strewn around? 
Let's think of these, all these that's gone, 
As like the night before the dawn. 
Consoled by all this mighty host. 
Extending now, from coast to coast. 
A thousand now, where once before. 
But one was found, from shore to shore. 
And these improvements, all so grand, 
Far strewn around on every hand, 
And where were they, had we not come. 
To plan and build for home sweet home ? 

True, some isolated wigwams stood 
Along the stream, or by the wood. 
And here they'd stay till game was gone, 
And then the band went moving on. 
While all around these riches lay. 
With ne'er a thought of husbandry. 



44 A Whistling Farmer 

For this wild savage with his frown 
Was all too proud to till the ground. 
And then the Lord came by one day, 
And vowed he'd drive these men away, 
And give the land to one more wise, — 
Some one with pluck and enterprise. 
To turn the sod, and sow the plain. 
That He had meant for fruits and grain. 

"And now," said He, "I warn you all. 
Your ways are not my ways at all, 
And if you don't arouse from sleep. 
Between these oceans, wide and deep, 
I'll have to treat you as I've done 
In all the lands beneath the sun. 
Selecting but the tried and best. 
And drive all others farther West." 
And ere He went upon His way, 
He warned them He'd return some day, 
To see if they had changed their plan, 
And sought to cultivate the land. 
But while the years they came and went. 
These savages, they seemed content 
To sally forth and bend the bow, 
To slay the wily buffalo. 

And yet, these men of sluggish brains, 
Who moved about upon the plains, 
Refused to heed the words of God, 
Who bade them go and turn the sod. 
And then it was, Columbus come, — 
And probably passed around some rum, 
And lured these natives to his ship. 
And then he loosed the anchor's grip. 
And sailed he eastward o'er the main. 



A Whistling Farmer 45 

Until he reached the coast of Spain. 
And there, before his sovereigns told 
The story that will ne'er grow old. 

But that was in a slothful age. 

Long years before this modern rage 

Of steam, and gas, and whisperings, 

Or man had thought of flying wings. 

And yet, the Lord once more returned. 

And found these natives unconcerned. 

For while two hundred years went by, 

This roving race made no reply. 

Nor was there found a field of grain, 

On all this vast extending plain. 

Nor cities built, nor compact formed, 

To meet invasion's threatening storm. 

For still these native hunters thought 

The Lord would leave what he had wrought, — 

For savages, and idle hands, — 

The wealth of all these endless lands. 

And so he sang his wild songs still, 
And lived the life a savage will, 
Who dreameth not of God's one plan. 
That still exalts our fellow-man. 
Yes, the years went by, — two hundred now, — 
Nor was there found a single plow. 
To break the sod and stir the soil, 
Nor e 'en a man who sought its toil. 
And now, the Lord was wroth, and said : 
"The world cries out for other bread." 
And then He sent the Mayflower o'er. 
To plant some seeds along the shore, 
And chop, and hew, and clear the wood, 
Along the stream where Plymouth stood. 



46 A Whistling Farmer 

And North they spread to Canada, 
And down the coast to Florida; 
And while the ax and rifle rang, 
And onward swift the builders sprang, 
More deeply yet toward the West 
These poor deluded natives pressed. 
For other ships behind this trailed, 
And o'er the wide Atlantic sailed, 
And landings made along the shore, 
And built where none had built before. 
And cities sprang on every side; 
And commerce swept the oceans wide; 
And bread was sent to every shore, 
Around the earth to feed the poor. 



< i 



And then the Lord was heard to say: 

I hail thee oft, America!" 

And there He stood, and smiled, and smiled, 

And said He loved His youngest child. 

And press, " said He, ''press boldly on; 

For scarce your day has seen its dawn. 

And of this race, that's gone before. 

No enmity to them I bore, 

But none shall occupy my land. 

Unless I find they still expand. 

And love your soil, and keep it new, 

If not, in time, I'll damn you, too. 

For here's the gem of greatest worth, 

These vales that fructify the earth ! ' ' 

Then come, my friends, let's take a hand 

In all the glories of our land, 

And show our God we're worthy men. 

And mean to be until the end. 

And then I'm sure, He'll laugh out loud, 



A Whistling Farmer 47 

And say, because He feels so proud: 
"Behold in these, — these broader minds, 
Here's where the vine of progress twines, 
These Lincolns, and these Jeffersons, 
And these immortal AYashingtons, 
And all the rest that helped to lay 
The keel that floats America." 



JIM JOHNSON AND HIS WIFE 

Jim Johnson, he got up one mom, 

And Jim walked down to town, 
And when he'd reached the business part. 

He walked and walked around; 
Until, at last, along the way 

He found a big saloon. 
Then Jim walked in and called for grog. 

And there he drank till noon. 
And danced his jigs, and sang his songs. 

And had a world of fun. 
Until he whispered o'er the bar: 

"I've not a cent of mun." 
And then it was, they threw him out. 

Upon the stony street. 
And blacked his eyes, and broke his nose, 

And kicked him with their feet. 
But Jim, he made so loud a noise, 

While yet they held him down. 
The cops come running through the streets. 

From all the dives in town. 
And then they took him off to jail, — 

Behind some prison bars, — 
And Jim looked like a slaughter house, 

A-bleeding from his scars. 



48 A Whistling Farmer 

And yet, next day they lined him up, 

Along with forty more. 
And every man along the line 

Was evidently poor. 
And Jim, they give him thirty days. 

And made him pay a fine, 
And sent him off a-pounding rock, 

To pacify his mind. 
And when he got that straightened up. 

He went and drank some more, 
For Jim, you see, had done this thing 

A hundred times before. 



And then his wife, she come to town, 

With twins upon her arm, 
And she said: "Jim was always good 

When he was on the farm. 
He'd milk the cows, and churn the cream, 

And hoe the cabbage patch. 
And as for generosity. 

You couldn't find his match. 
And we are farmers, Jim and I, 

And lead a farmer's life. 
And there we're held in high respect. 

As 'Johnson and his wife.' 
And while we live among our friends 

Along the shady lane, 
Some strangers oft come in to sup. 

And shelter from the rain. 
And Jim, you see, won't charge a cent. 

No matter who may come, 
And oft he's said they ought to do 

The same with beer and rum. 
Instead, they've gone and beat him up. 

And took him off to jail, 



A Whistling Farmer 49 

And coming into town this morn, 

I found his bloody trail. 
And then I sought the magistrate, 

The mayor of the town ; 
But when he saw my tearful face, 

He met me with a frown. 
And when I spoke about our home 

Along the shady lane, 
At me he smiled derisively. 

And said to call again. 
And while I plead the best I could. 

With this, my sobbing tone. 
As like a flash he turned away 

And left me there alone. 
God help these babies that we've got. 

These twins upon my arm, 
If this keeps on much longer now 

We're bound to lose our farm." 



And you, my friends, take my advice: 

When you go down to town, 
And when you reach the business part, 

And walk and walk around, 
Don't go and do as Jimmy did, — 

Don't hunt the big saloon. 
And walk right in and order grog, 

And drink and drink till noon; 
And dance your jigs, and sing your songs 

And whisper o'er the bar; 
For if you do you '11 soon find out 

The gates are not ajar. 
'*^And what became of her," you ask, 

**With twins upon her arm? 
And was her prophecy correct. 

About their little farm?" 



50 A Whistling Farmer 

And shame, as well, the state, 
And shame onr cities, great and small. 

Providing such a fate. 
For Jim 's been gone these many years. 

But other Jims, alas, 
Have come to take Jim Johnson's place, 

Asleep beneath the grass. 
And while they lost their little home 

Along the shady lane. 
Where travelers, aweary, sought 

A shelter from the rain, 
More poignant yet than all of this 

Is that eternal blight 
That comes to haunt a ruined life, 

And make it dark as night. 



THE DEATH OF JOHN BARLEYCORN 

It's up to you, John Barleycorn, 

It is, as sure as you are born! 

And so we've come, your grace to warn, 

And break your demijohn. 

And go and lock your brewery up. 

And smash your kegs, and every cup, 

For ne'er again we'll drink a sup. 

Of poison o'er your counter. 

And, John, this thing has come to stay, 

As sure as light brings on the day, 

Or men grow feeble, old, and gray, 

Along the passing years. 

And for your plight, John Barleycorn, 

All broken-hearted and forlorn. 

The world has naught but endless scorn 

For those who seek her ruin. 



A Whistling Farmer 51 

But, John, know this, you're only one 

That 's cursed our race since we begun, 

And played their pranks, and had their fun, 

Before they slept forever. 

But I'll not mention these to you, — 

Although the list is long and true, — 

For you'll have all that you can do 

To make an honest living. 

Nor am I sorry for you, John, 

As like to those you preyed upon, 

For you were such a heartless don, 

A-grasping after money. 

And, John, you scoffed at mothers' tears, 

And had for them but passing sneers. 

And mocked all decency for years, 

And made your god your whiskey. 

And for all this, I '11 say to thee : 

When thou art gone, thy grave shall be 

As lost as though you slept at sea. 

Beneath the briny ocean. 

And none shall come to shed a tear. 

Above thy mold that slumbers here, 

Nor speak thy name, unless to sneer. 

Thy heartless avocation. 

And glad's the day, John Barleycorn, 

And glad's the eve, and glad's the morn. 

When men can't find a single horn 

In all the blessed city. 



GOD'S COUNTRY 

I SAW the grandest picture once 

That man has ever seen. 
With high encircling mountain chains, 

And valleys spread between ; 



52 A Whistling Farmer 

And round and round its dizzy heights, 

The bridle-path and road, 
And in its gorges deep below, 

A seething torrent flowed. 
And far and near the country flung 

Her wide extending arms, 
And everywhere the vistas lent 

Their most exquisite charms. 
And justice smiled upon them all. 

While pointing to her plan, 
"Where equal weal and equal woes 

The heritage of man. 

Who wrought this picture ? do you ask. 

Who spread this lovely scene, — 
With forest deep and rivers flow, 

And valleys rolled between? 
Why, He it was, who made my heart. 

As well this flashing eye, 
And while all this you may behold 

How futile seems reply. 
And here the needs of happiness 

Are thickly strewn around. 
For God lives in the country wide ; 

The devil lives in town. 

I'll tell you how I found this out. 

Some forty years ago: 
One day, when I went fishing trout, 

Along with Kitty Snow; 
And while we sat upon a log 

That lay across the brook. 
We watched the travel on the road 

Behind a shady nook. 
'*And with this travel here," said I, 

*'The fish will never bite." 



A Whistling Farmer 53 

And yet we stayed and stayed till I 

Was mad enough to fight. 
But I was so wrapt up in her 

I didn 't dare to pout, 
And this was once she tangled me, 

And turned me square about. 
And all was done so nicely, too. 

And in a proper way, 
And when the fogs had passed along, 

I scarce knew what to say. 
And smiling now, my sweetheart said, 

''Let's weigh this travel out; 
Let's take our pads and write it down 

And find what they're about. 
I 've heard old Nick lives down in town. 

The Lord, among the woods. 
Let 's find what each of these produce : 

The traffic, and the goods." 
And unto this I gave assent, 

"With scarce a moment's thought, 
But presently I saw the point, 

And found that I was caught. 
For Kit, she chose the rural route, 

And I, the blasted town, 

And there she sat the livelong day 

And wrote the products down. 
And oft I heard her tittering, — 

For she was feeling fine, — 
While I, like Job, I stood and held 

This vacant pad of mine. 
Of course she was a country lass, 

And I was reared in town, 
And when I saw what she had done 

She made me take a frown. 



54 A Whistling Farmer 



For while the hours dragged along, 

I scarcely wrote a bit, 
And yet my lady wrote so much 

I thought she'd never quit. 
And, true it was, I'd known her long. 

And she was always sweet, - 
But now, to-day, she seemed awry. 

In taking my defeat. 

And so the morning hours went 

Without a single trout. 
And there I sat, like some old man, 

Afflicted with the gout. 
And then I spoke of luncheon time, 

The middle of the day. 
But still she smiled the sweetest smile. 

And swiftly wrote away. 
And here I left her all alone 

And sought our swinging boat. 
And yet, she scarcely looked around. 

The while she wrote and wrote. 

The day passed on, the evening came. 

The sun was sinking low. 
And gruffly now I raised my voice. 

And told her we must go. 
At this she quickly turned around. 

And left our shady nook, 
And like an eliin tripped 

The margin of the brook. 
And while I pushed our boat away 

My lady sat behind, 
And sang a ditty soft and low, 

To pacify my mind. 
And then she opened out her pad 

And read to me a part. 



A Whistling Farmer 55 

And such an endless mass she had, 

It made my temper smart. 
And while the waters roared aloud, — 

As waters often will, — 
Above all this her voice arose 

As though the bay were still. 

And while she read and smiled at me, — 

At last I broke an oar, 
And backward in the boat I went. 

Far madder than before. 
And while I slowly paddled on. 

My lassie ever read, 
And this is only just a part 

Of what my lover said : 

*I saw some brilliant buds expand 

Into a perfect bloom, 
And maidens came and gathered these, 

To decorate their room. 
And then the vans began to pass 

A-rumble down the road, 
Beside a meadow doodled nice, 

Some farmers lately mowed. 
I read the labels as they went, 

Of honey, milk, and cream. 
And many of the loads I saw 

AVould stall the strongest team. 
And then there passed along the way 

A herd of fattened kine. 
And slowly trudging at their heels, 

A hundred head of swine. 
And sheep and lambs in flocks so vast 

I'm sure I could not tell. 
Led on and on along the road, 

Behind a tinkling bell. 



56 A Whistling Farmer 

And every kind of fowl I saw, — 

Like turkeys, geese, and ducks, — 
And these were piled in crates so liigh 

They loaded down the trucks. 
And wheat and corn and barley bags, 

Potatoes, oats, and hay. 
Like clouds they were that overcast 

The universal way. 

*'And bales of wool and timber trains, 

And timothy and flax. 
And loads of cotton from the South, 

And horses, mules, and jacks. 
And grapes, I saw, with oranges, 

And baskets full of plums. 
All products of the country frank 

From which our living comes. 
And cantaloupes and turnips rolled 

Along the dusty way, 
And pickles vied with onions oft 

Throughout the busy day. 
And cheese and eggs, and butter, too, 

Along with hides and wax. 
And hubbard squash, with hazelnuts 

To fill the smaller cracks. 
And oft I saw the terrapin, 

The salmon, and the eel. 
As well as cod and mackerel 

That makes a splendid meal. 
And coffee, tea and chocolate, 

And peppermint, and salt, 
And beer, that's made from barley mash, 

That ferments into malt. 
And peas and beans and radishes. 

And lettuce on the side. 



A Whistling Farmer 57 

As constantly they moved along 

As does the ocean tide. 
And snipes there were, and pheasant, too, 

The plover, and the quail, 
And wagon- after wagonload 

Of bonny cottontail. 
And hick'ry wood, all dry and nice, 

For wealthy folk to burn, 
And yams, I saw, I do believe, 

As big as granny's churn. 

'And by me passed some loads of bones 

To fertilize the lands, 
And pretty Polly oft I heard 

Among the moving vans. 
And 'possum for the colored race 

And sugar from the tree. 
And cat and bass and pike there was 

That I could plainly see. 
And lemons for the lemonade, 

And cherries for the pie, 
And broilers from the poultry-yards. 

To make a Sunday fry. 
And turtles, from the swampy lands, 

The curlew, and the frog, 
And cranberries and rice as well 

That hanker for the bog. 
And cider, from the cidermill. 

And melons from the vine, 
And from the vineyard o'er the hill 

A dozen casks of wine. 
And all around us everywhere 

The fields were turning brown, 
For God lives in the country sweet; 

The devil lives in town; 



58 A Whistling Farmer 

And don't you get impatient, dear, 
. For I am almost through, 
And yet I think I 'd better read 

Another line or two. 
And then I'll listen with delight 

To many things you wrote, 
For I can manage this, you know, 

Or any other boat. 
And when we reach my father's farm, 

Some distance down the bay, 
We'll tell them of our fishing trip 

And how we spent the day. 

*'And coal there was in quantities. 

And gold and silver ore, 
And other things went dashing by 

I never saw before; 
And lime that looked as white as snow, 

That's burned in many kilns, 
In countries vast, — that's strewn around 

Among the distant hills. 
And sand and gravel moved along 

In never-ending strings, 
And water from the waterworks 

Around the mineral springs. 
And jugs and jars of pottery. 

That's made from Potter's clay. 
A host of these went moving on. 

And on, along the way. 
And copper, from the copper mines. 

And lead and iron ore. 
The barges on the river near, 

A mighty tonnage bore. 
And oils, — from the oil fields, — 

That's shipped away in tanks. 



A Whistling Farmer 59 

And brick went by continually, 

That's made along the banks; 
And from the quarries near at hand, 

Some onyx-mottled rocks, 
And marble that is used to build 

Our finest city blocks ; 
And granite, for our monuments. 

And cars of Bedford lime, 
And cobble-stones for making roads, — 

That's useful all the time; 
And alum, that is hidden down 

Among its mother earth. 
And crayons made from common chalk 

Possessing much of worth; 

'And quite a bit of asbestos. 

Aluminum and tin. 
And glass, that's cut to make it glint. 

And some of which they spin. 
And, oh, the wonders that I saw 

From creeping plant and tree, 
From all the countries of the world 

And river, lake, and sea ! 
And everything the heart could wish 

To beautify the home. 
And wean the mind from worry's way 

And banish all its gloam. 
The earth gave up the best she had. 

From every vale and hill; 
And at my feet a song I heard, — 

The waters of the rill." 

'Excuse me. Kit, I thought you said 

'Another line or two,' 
And then you'd lay your pad aside 
And do as others do." 



6o A Whistling Farmer 

*'I did, and yet I think it best 

I finish out my note; 
So lay your paddle down awhile 

And let the dory floats 
And prunes, oh, yes; I most forgot 

The luscious little prune, 
And rhubarb, too; well, I declare, — 

For making sauce in June. 
And mustard, from the mustard plant, 

And raisins from the vine, 
And starch to make the linen stiff 

That hangs upon the line. 
And ice there was, that went along 

For storage near the bay. 
Where men go out and often cut 

A thousand tons a day. 

''And corn I saw, the brush that's used 

To make the lady's broom, 
And tiger pelts of every kind 

To decorate her room. 
And then I saw some venison 

Upon a noble stag, 
And elk and bear and other game 

Behind a weary nag. 
And hemp there was, and sisal grass 

That 's used in making rope ; 
And offal from the slaughter house 

To manufacture soap. 
And green bananas, — such a load 

They weighed the steamer down! — 
Along with cocoanuts, of course, — 

The largest nut in town. 
And rubber, from the rubber trees 

To make the rubber tire 



A Whistling Farmer 6i 

That hums along the way so fast 

It sets the roads afire. 
And willows, from the willow with, 

To weave the willow ware, 
And bristles from the coarser swine 

As well as plaster hair. 
And dates and figs and cinnamon 

I saw with common sage, 
And other things I failed to catch 

In this elusive age. 
And oft I saw the hickorynut, 

The walnut, and the beech, 
For boys who had gathered them 

A wagonload of each. 

'And then tomatoes, ripe and red. 

And sorghum, if you will. 
And flour from the miller 's chest 

That runs the watermill. 
And barrels full of sassafras. 

And ginger for the cake, 
And tallow candles that are used 

At every Irish wake. 
And ginseng from the shady vales. 

And wahoo from the soil, 
And aromatic packages 

Of pungent pennyroy'l. 
And close behind some rosin come. 

For rosining the bow. 
And that was why I danced a jig. 

As when you asked to know.'* 

But when our boat had ground at last 

The gravel on the shore. 
She threw her writings overboard, 

And vowed she'd read no more. 



62 A Whistling Farmer 

And then she took me by the arm, 

And, like a mother, said, — 
A pickle now in either hand, 

And not a bite of bread, — 
''I want to tell you something, Frank, 

There's nothing grows in town, 
Except the bloom of poverty. 

That wears a ragged gown; 
And blasted hopes and suicides. 

And murders every night, 
And robbers, who will only work 

To keep their pistols bright. 
And pestilence and drunkenness, 

And villainy and greed. 
And fiends of every known degree 

That infamy can breed. 

''Give me the pleasures born of hope, 

The greening of the fields, 
And singing birds and stately woods. 

And pure and simple meals, 
The pliant sod to tread upon. 

The golden sun its crown, 
For God lives in the country, dear, 

But never lives in town. 
I see Him in the sparkling dews. 

Resplendent in the morn. 
And meet Him daily, face to face, 

In every leaf that's born. 
In tones of tinkling melody 

I find Him in the brook. 
And often turn myself around 

In wonderment to look. 
And for my lagging faith He sends 

The whisper of the trees, 



A Whistling Farmer 63 

And comes to cool my parching brow 

In every passing breeze. 
And when the day begins to break, 

And clouds begin to blush, 
The morning finds me swept away 

With Nature 's blessed hush ; 
The evening folds me in her arms. 

So hallowed and calm, 
My heart throbs out its gratitude. 

So full of thanks I am! 
And like some prophecy of old, 

I hear this true command, 
Outspoken from a thousand things 

Around on every hand : 

'These bounties, that around you lie, 

All these I freely give, 
The Lord cries out to every one: 

' ' Come unto Me and live ! 
Out here among my harvest fields, 

A-billow with their grain. 
Where softly floats the gentle breeze 

Across the verdant plain ! " * " 



THE PARTING 

Will you cherish me, my dearest. 

Will you idolize my name, 
Above the plaudits' loudest sweep, 

Around the brow of fame? 
Will you wait, and long, and linger 

For my coming through the years. 
And will you call my name and listen 

As you hesitate in tears? 



64 A Whistling Farmer 

And will you plant for me a flower, 

Like the one that's in my room, 
And come out and break the silence 

That must linger round my tomb, 
And sing for me, my favorite song, 

In the evening of the day, 
Come and hold a sweet communion. 

Ere I molder into clay? 

And when your labors are all finished, 

And you're kneeling by your chair, 
Will you mention me, my dearest, — 

Will you mention me in prayer? 
And will you teach our baby daughter. 

When you fold her to your breast. 
There is light beyond the darkness. 

And the master knoweth best ? 

And give her all my little trinkets. 

And my picture on the wall, 
And brush away her tears of sorrow, 

That are waiting for us all? 
Aye, your answer, that's been given. 

Given all along the years, 
In your actions that were stronger 

Than your language, or your tears. 

And it's finished. While I'm waiting 

Death comes stealing through my gate. 
In this hour of my departure, 

He has lingered until late. 
There 's my baby, I have kissed her, — 

Kissed you all a last good-by. 
In the arms of my Creator, 

What a pleasure thus to lie ! 



A Whistling Farmer 65 



WAITING 

And, oh, for the sound of a voice that's still, 
And the gladsome smile of a beaming face,- 

As I ramble alone by the tockUng rill, 
AVhere memories fondly enfold the place ! 

And, oh, for the touch of a hand that lies. 
Forever encircling a pulseless breast, 

And a prattling tongue and the flashing eyes 
That are wrapt in the folds of eternal rest! 

For I am alone and depressed, my dear, 
And I longingly look to the rounding hill. 

And upon your tomb I'm leaving a tear. 
That will bind us both in the future still. 

And wait for me, love, by that pearly gate, 
For my step is slow, and my form is bent; 

And the day is gone and the eve is late, 
While biding my time ere I go — content ! 



DESTINY 

Where destiny has made her home 

For ages in the past, 
The seekers after truth have found 

Her hiding-place at last. 

And if its fields of mental worth. 
Why, then, we feed the brain; 

And if some prowess wonderful, 
The physical we train. 



66 A Whistling Farmer 

By specializing thus, we know, 

All prodigies unfold. 
And looking o'er the page of time, 

The story's easy told. 

And while the tinker ever seeks 
To grasp the whole domain, — 

All scattered thus, his energies 
Are very quickly slain. 

Then study well the lives of men. 
And note how they proceed ; 

One object always in their mind. 
Alone they ever heed. 

In love or war, it matters not, 
One constant thought pursue; 

And Destiny, e'en Destiny, 
Will step aside for you. 

Behold the thought Columbus had 
Before that mighty dawn, 

And what was that, they say he said ? 
''Sail on, my men, sail on!" 

And Grant, upon his battle-fields, 
When doubters asked him, ''Why?" 

Amid the storms of shot and shell 
He had but one reply. 

The bogies of the world have been 

The destiny of man. 
It's undermined his energies. 

And ruined every plan. 



A Whistling Farmer 67 



THE FAIRY NUMBER ONE 

One evening in my garden, late, 

I heard some fairy say: 
But recently, as when our God 

Had gone so far away, — 
To reconstruct again, perchance. 

The ruins of some sun 
That, out amid the fogs of time, 

Had met another one. 
And while the grandest music still 

Arose and died away. 
And pleasures one can ne'er forget 

Beguiled the passing day ; 
At two I left the holy place, — 

When nodding heads recline 
From viands that are often rich 

And draughts of sparkling wine. 
Unseen by all that joyous throng, 

I scaled its dazzling height, 
To cleave the outer depths of space 

And dare the darksome night. 
How many million leagues I came 

To me is all unknown, 
As, like the instant flash of thought, 

I hurried on alone; 
Past suns, and moons, and asteroids, 

And Jupiter, and Mars, 
And past a never-ending flood 

Of great and brilliant stars 
And systems reaching out in space, 

Where grandeur ever blends 
With power, symmetry and grace, 

And wonder never ends. 



68 A Whistling I^'armer 

And here and there, as time went on, 
I stopped, to fast and pray, 

And, oh, the sights that I have seen 
Since God has gone away! 

^'Here, on this planet, as I lay 

Lone resting by a stream, 
I saw two feeble women yoked 

And driven as a team. 
And men still held the reins behind, 

With bloody whips at play. 
At sight of which, with bleeding heart, 

I turned my face away. 
And as they jolted o'er the roads, 

I followed close behind, 
By ruins old now covered o'er 

With ivy's clinging vine. 
And what was once a fruitful plain, 

Now tangled in decay. 
Where mighty pillars, heaped and blent, 

In desolation lay. 
Long hours we spent upon the road, 

Among the sandy cones, 
Near jackal dens and howling wolves 

And heaps of human bones. 
And turning round a ledge of rocks 

That long before us lay, 
I saw a dozen squalid huts 

Some distance down the way ; 
And in their midst a chapel stood. 

With 'dobe walls of brown. 
And poverty was everywhere 

In every face and gown. 
And he who used the whip before. 

With saintly face and fair, 



A Whistling Farmer 69 

Bowed down, and in a solemn tone 
Commenced his Sunday prayer: 

'Be this our supplication, Lord, — 

It's ever unto Thee, — 
Since thou hast called us forth 

Upon life's stormy sea. 
For a few brief years to strive 

Among- the sons of men. 
And then in death, with Thy command, 

Thou call'st us back again. 
For a time, — as 'twere, a day, — 

AVe pluck Thy flowers and rave, 
And turning, hide our face in grief, 

And lay them on the grave. 

'Prime ]\Iover of the Universe, 

And Love, and Boundless Grace, 
^lay we not hope some future day 

To meet Thee face to face? 
An humble and a contrite child, 

At last, before Thee stand. 
And feel the glowing touch, dear Lord, 

Of Thine extended hand. 
O God, we long and long for Thee, 

Deep hidden amid Thy stars! 
Come forth, and flood the world with light, 

And fling aside Thy bars. 
For dark and drear and lonely are 

Our pathways down the years, 
With Thee, our dearest friend, far off, 

Beyond this vale of tears. 
And bless us all collectively. 

And these, Thy favored ones. 
And grant a special blessing, Lord, 

To all Thy holy sons. 



70 A Whistling Farmer 

And now, Lord, God Almighty, 

Grant the boon of our lives : 
Wilt thou not come and speak again 

To these, our erring wives; 
Who still, we find, from pole to pole, — 

Embracing every land, — 
Are seeking, even now, dear Lord, 

To controvert Thy plan?' 
And then, with boundless fervency. 

While all the heads were bowed, 
And men were shouting everywhere 

'Amensl' among the crowd, 
I tipped a Bible, deep in dust, 

Upon a shelf so high; 
It sounded like a pistol shot. 

As on the floor it lie : 
And while a circle formed around 

This wonder on the floor. 
In deep disgust, I walked out through 

The keyhole in the door. 

"And now, beyond this misery 

My route of travel lay. 
And soon I sighted in the east 

A bright and sparkling bay; 
And drawing near, behold, I saw 

A cloud of fire and smoke, 
And soon upon my startled gaze 

A line of battle broke. 
And mighty shot, like rainbow hues, 

Went arching from the bay. 
And myriads answered from the land, 

And went the other way. 
And oft the bugle called the charge, 

And oft it called retreat, 



A Whistling Farmer 71 

And thousands o'er tlie bloody fields 

Lay dying at my feet. 
And from the city, sorely pressed, 

An endless pageant poured, 
From conflagrations everywhere, 

More deadly than the sword. 
And now, from all this deadly strife 

And butchery and flame, 
I turned me round about at last. 

With sorrow mixed with shame. 

'And once again I sought relief 

Long weary miles away, 
Among the highest mountain peaks 

Alone, to fast and pray. 
For all this grief and wickedness, 

And all this shameful sin, 
Will be rebuked and cast away 

When God comes home again. 
But ere I reached my fasting-place 

That I had swiftly sought, 
I found another field of blood 

That enmity had wrought. 
Where little children cried for bread, 

And star^^ing cantons lay, 
I heard the bugle sound again 

In battle's stern array. 

And here and there and everywhere, 

I failed in all my plans. 
For wreck and ruin followed me 

Through many fertile lands. 
For still I saw the smoke by day, 

And fires gleamed by night. 
And thunders shook the distant bay 

With diemonlike delight; 



72 A Whistling Farmer 

And war's alarm filled all the earth, 

And none were left to pray, 
And life was burdened unto death 

Since God had gone away. 
Alas! I fear another storm 

Is hidden in the gloam, 
As in the days of Cataline, 

Or Nero, down in Rome; 
For then, we know, enormous strength 

Was centered in the few, 
And looking at one nation now, 

"We find the same is true. 
And conquest was the leading thought 

Outlined in every plan, 
But not more so, perhaps, than now. 

With one designing man. 
And history shows the strongest minds 

And boldest nations won, 
In leading on to victory 

Across some Eubicon. 
But now, alas! — alas, for this. 

For they themselves had lost. 
And they, and all the earth beside, 

Were doomed to pay the cost. 
For soon the night of darkness spread 

Her pinions o 'er the world, 
And backward, with a frightful crash, 

Advancing thought was hurled; 
And nations died, and cities fell, 

And palaces were rent. 
And man become a child again 

With feebleness content. 



A Whistling Farmer 73 



THE SOWER 

Behold, a sower went forth to sow, 
In the languid breath of the season's glow. 
And near to the brink of a river's flow, 
That beautiful River of Jordan! 

And he sowed a prayer along with his grain, 
To stifle the heat of the scorching plain 
And the Lord sent down some showers of rain 
B}^ the beautiful River of Jordan. 

And as for the tares, and the poor stony lands. 
And the blight that comes when the chinch expands, 
A bountiful crop for the toiler stands 
By the beautiful River of Jordan. 

And the Savior heard of this righteous man, 
Whose piety now was filling the land, 
And then his wonderful sermon was planned 
Near the beautiful River of Jordan. 

Enshrouded in myst 'ry, we know not his name. 
His nation, his country, or whence that he came ; 
But Christ leads him on to still greater fame. 
By the beautiful River of Jordan. 



THE TRUE SOURCE 

T PRAY," says the brooklet, 
**I pray to the ground, 

And I," says the river, 
"To brooks all around. 



74 A Whistling Farmer 

''And making my journey 
Along through the land, 
I heave to the wave-crest, 
And grow and expand. 

''Come, float on my bosom 
And jolly with me, 
And view the great cities 
En route to the sea!" 

"And I," says the raindrop, 
"I pray to the cloud, 
Where storms ever mumble 
Their mutterings loud; 

' ' Away then, — away then, 
I fly to the earth, 
And give to the thirsty 
A newness of birth. 

"And loudly I patter, 
And patter amain. 
Till cotters roll over 
And slumber again." 

' ' Ah, ha ! " says the grass-blade 
A-peep from its sod, 

"I pray to Jehovah, — 
Jehovah 's my God. ' ' 



THE TRAVELING SALESMAN 

There's a village on the railway, — where I travel to 
and fro, 
To take the merchant's order for his goods, — 



A Whistling Farmer 75 

In a wide and fertile vallej^ where the sweetest waters 
flow, 
'Neath the shadows of the overhanging woods. 

And when my circuit's finished, and I reach this 
point again, 
I laj" aside my worry and my strife, 
For I know three smiling faces will be waiting for 
my train. 
In the persons of my babies and my wife. 

Unpretentious was this village in the years of long 
ago, 
Unpretentious, is this little village still. 
But here I've found the purest lives that mortals 
ever know. 
Surrounded by their holdings that they till. 

There's a romance in the countrj^ — in the whisper 
of its trees. 
Like the babble of a language that is old, 
And a mystery that surrounds it like the mumble of 
the bees, 
"\iVhich the wisdom of the ages hasn't told. 

It's the fountain-source of knowledge, it's the pure 
and wholesome air, 
It 's the struggle for the summit of the hill ; 
It's this pleading voice of Nature that is present 
everywhere. 
That soothes the nervous tension of the will. 

It's the warble of the songster, it's the waters at the 
mill, 
It's the gliding of the onward-flowing stream. 



76 A Whistling Farmer 

It's the cradle-song of Mother, and the murmur of 
the rill 
That paint the vivid visions of their dream. 

It's the scenes that lie around them, it's the undu- 
lating plains. 
It 's this beauty that is present with its charms ; 
It's the clouds of silver lining and the purifying 
rains, 
And the matron, with her baby in her arms. 

It's the growth of vegetation that so constantly ap- 
peals, 
It's the turning of the turf beneath the plow, 
And the clothing of the landscape and the greening 
of the fields 
That bring a smile of pleasure to the brow. 

It's the lowing of the cattle and the whinny of the 
foal, 

It's the crowing of the coek'rel in the morn, 
It's this zenith of perfection and the acme of the soul. 

Where the famous of the earth are always born. 

It's the hazing of the distance, it's the efforts of the 
eye, 
It's the purple tints of morning in the East, 
It's the 'doodle in the meadow and the billow of 
the rye, 
And the jollity that's flowing at the feast. 

It's the creamy mists of evening, it's a welcome for 
the birth, 
It's the infant that is nursing at the breast: 
Here's the cord that binds together all the noble of 
the earth, 
In a pathway leading on to perfect rest. 



A Whistling Farmer 77 

It's the absence of confusion, it's the quietude of 
night 
That brings refreshing slumber in its wake, 
It's the boating on the river and the flying of the 
kite, 
And the skating in the vrinter on the lake. 

It's this cheerful disposition and the freedom from 
restraint, 
In these roomy, rural regions of the West, 
And the maiden in her garden, — who is never known 
to paint, — 
That tells the truest story and the best. 

It's the distance down the valleys and the objects far 
away 
That give a broader impulse to the mind 
Than do choked and narrow cities with their dingy 
walls of clay, 
And the smutty-smelling odors that we find. 

It's the greeting of the neighbor, it's the grasping 
of his hand, 
It's the open-hearted gushings on the wold. 
Here's the answer for the seeker and the witching 
of the wand 
Adown the passing ages that have told. 

It's the purifying waters, it's the bubble of the 
springs. 
It's the solvent that is hidden in the ground, 
And the calling, ever calling, of so many blessed 
things 
That caps the final climax with a crown. 



78 A Whistling Farmer 

In these rural vales of beauty there is room enough 
for all, 
And a heritage for each and every man; 
In some wide and fertile valley where the tumbling 
water's fall, 
Creation has prescribed an ample plan. 

I've a lovely little cottage in this village by the sea 
That is dearer to my heart than is my life, 

And the pleasures it affords me, they are sacred 
unto me. 
It's the dwelling of my babies and my wife. 

While I labor late and early, and I travel far and 
wide, 
There's a sweetly solemn thought upon my mind, 
And my heart is ever throbbing like the ocean's flaw- 
ing tide, 
When all that's dear to me is left behind. 

And when my train is stalling in some dark and 
dreary dell. 
Here 's a message that has often come to me : 
And it's from my wife and babies and it seems to 
sweetly tell 
That all's well in the cottage by the sea. 

In the keeping of that cottage and its pure and sim- 
ple love, 
That is shorn of all deceit and hidden art, 
All my happiness on earth and my hopes of heaven 
above, 
I've entrusted, — every jewel of my heart. 

For I love my dear old homestead and its ocean 
breezes free, 
With a love that is stronger than my life, 



A Whistling Farmer 79 

And when at last I come to die, I am trusting it 
will be 
In the arms of my babies and my wife. 



DISHONOR 

Dishonors east abroad, 
Are but a painless pang, 
But when they reach the home, 
So frightful is their stab 
That many swing the blow 
That malice would inflict. 



BURNS' STATUE 

City Park, Denver 

Before thee, Burns, I sit me down, 

To gaze awhile upon thy face, 
And note how e'en thy simple gown 

Thy flowing figure giveth grace. 
Surrounded here by all these trees, 

Transported, rapt, thou seem'st to stand. 
As though this scene thy vision sees 

Were like thy own, thy native land. 
If not, why gaze on all who pass. 

Unswerving, still, thy constant eye? 
Or is it she, — more dear, alas ! — 

Is Highland Mary passing by? 
Or dost thou see the "Bonnie Doone," 

Wild rambling onward in its flow, 
And hear the songster's merry tune. 

As in thy life, long years a^o? 



8o A Whistling Farmer 

Or does the Afton onward glide, 

With memories of other days, 
And stir thy soul with Scottish pride, 

Wild bursting forth among thy lays? 
And with this book that's open part. 

And with thy ever-ready quill, 
Come, Burns, of what is in thy heart, 

And art thou ever writing still? 
Instead some mouse with ruined nest, 

If thou hadst only lived to-day. 
Thy thought had been with the oppressed,- 

The marsh 'ling hosts along the way. 
But let thy peaceful image stand, — 

E'en though the present be ignored?— 
All statuelike, serene, and grand. 

Among the scenes thy life adored. 



THE PROPOSAL 

T 'was evening, and the stars were bright, 
And eastward, far, the moon arose; 

As hallowed as some gladsome night, 
When lovers meet around the rose. 

And like to this, one pressed his suit, — 
A noble youth, supremely grand, — 

And yet the lady cold and mute, 
Disdainful still, withdrew her hand. 

Still he did urge, as strength will do, 
And plied his wits her love to win, 

For he'd a heart as bold and true 
As ever beat a breast within. 



A Whistling Farmer 8i 

For now, thought he, the time has come, 
When I should know the truth at last, 

And if the eve be cold and glum, 
I'll brace myself against the blast. 

So, there, beneath the vault above, 

A-tremble, with his passion mad. 
Beneath her feet he cast his love 

And every hope in life he had. 

And while they near the flowers stood, 
Now face to face, — themselves alone, — 

Outlined against the somber wood. 
Like statues cut from living stone. 

The lady turned, with flashing eyes. 
And emphasized them with her hands. 

And straightway thus, she made replies. 
As sternly as they were commands : 

Some hills there are we cannot climb, 
So rugged lies their weary height. 

And long since now, I once found mine. 
And you '11 find yours this very night. 

And like ourselves, each one may find. 
Their dream of love all torn apart. 

To leave its impress on the mind. 
And feebler make the pulsing heart. 

Through all of life that's short or long. 
And day and night, and storm and sun, 

This love may still return and throng 
Around us each and every one. 



82 A Whistling Farmer 

''Then let us part as best we may, 
And rue the hour in which we met, 
And here's my hand, and let us pray 
In years to come we may forget. 

''Forget these moonlit evenings here 
That, oh ! so swiftly seemed to roll. 
When your departure, drawing near. 
Drew forth the gushings of my soul. 

"Or with the sky o'ercast above. 

And all around as drear and dark. 
How sang I still my songs of love. 
As gladsome as the merry lark. 

"But now, out through some window pane, 
I'll muse me oft, in my distress, 
Nerveracked amid this tangled skein. 
How long, my God, I cannot guess. 

"While you may seek in distant lands 
Diversion from this tragic scene. 
And press, perchance, another's hands. 
This broken heart of yours to wean." 

"Forget these arms that clung to me, 

And all these tears that flowed with mine! 
Ah, tell me, dear, how may this be? 
The very thought seems so unkind ! ' ' 

And she loved him, and he loved her 
As with a love none can forget — 

And they got married, — dear, oh, dear ! — 
Nor have they rued the hour yet. 



A Whistling Farmer 83 



THE SHIPS, THEY ALL GO DOWN 

A CHILD there was who played upon 

The smoothly shaven lawn, 
And in his play he stopped to ask 
For one forever gone, 
''Oh, Mother dear, pray tell me true," 

Said little Johnny Brown, 
' ' Pray tell me where the ships all go\" 
''The ships, thej^ all go down, my child, 
The ships, they all go down." 

"And passengers and merchantmen, 
That sail about the seas, — 
Oh, Mother, what of these, pray tell, 

And, mother, what of these?" 
And then his Mother spoke again. 
To little Johnny Brown, 
"Among the crash of battle loud 
The ships, they all go down, my child, 
The ships, they all go down." 

"And, Mother, may I ask once more, 
When death is drawing nigh 
Do little children crowd around 
Upon the decks and cry?" 
"In war, my dear, there is no love. 
But all is hateful frown, 
And even where our children ride, 
The ships, they all go down, my child, 
The ships, they all go down." 



84 A Whistling Farmer 



THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS 

I AM dying, says the flower, in the season of the year, 
I am dying, like my comrades all around. 

And there's no one left to cheer me nor to shed a 
single tear, 
As I sink beneath the surface of the ground, 
As I sink beneath the surface of the ground, 
As I sink beneath the surface of the ground, 

And there's no one left to cheer me nor to shed a 
single tear. 
As I sink beneath the surface of the ground. 

But I've left some seeds behind me that will live 
when I am gone, 
When the birdies spread again their joyous wing, 
And the storms have all departed, and the vernal 
season comes. 
In the rapture and the glory of the spring. 
In the rapture and the glory of the spring. 
In the rapture and the glory of the spring. 
When the storms have all departed and the vernal 
season comes, 
In the rapture and the glory of the spring. 

So I'll live and bloom forever while the cycles pass 
away, 
And I'll beautify the garden and the lawn, 
Nor shall I long be resting here, amid this clammy 
clay, 
In the autumn of the season — when I 'm gone, 
In the autumn of the season — when I'm gone, 
In the autumn of the season — when I'm gone, 



A Whistling Farmer 85 

Nor shall I long be resting here, amid this clammy 
clay, 
In the autumn of the season — when I'm gone. 



IN AFTER YEARS 

And do you know, ere you've grown old 
To shield you from the heat and cold, 
It's best you hoard a bunch of gold 
For after years. 

And should some friend enhance your wit, 
And plead with you to garner it. 
Go thou straightway and save a bit. 
For after years. 

Nor will you lose a bit of glee 
Or pleasure strewn along life's lea 
In practicing economy 
For after years. 

For in these things of simpleness 
That leave behind so much distress, 
The whole of them, you'll learn to bless 
In after years. 

For in this field that many leave. 
And later on return to grieve. 
The gods of pleasure love to weave, 
For after years. 

And hear, Youth: Where'er you roam 
Beneath this vault of heaven's dome, 
Go forth and plan yourself a home 
For after years. 



86 A Whistling Farmer 

And make of this a castle staid, 
With deep and strong foundations laid, 
That none may come and thee upbraid 
In after years. 

And let this thought that seems divine, 
Around your heart its tendrils twine, 
And sway j^our soul and point your mind 
To after j'-ears. 

For while this siren sweetly sings. 
So swift is time upon his wings, 
That, ere you know, you'll feel his stings 
In after years. 

And some may say when thou art old, 
And all thy limbs are dull and cold: 
"And, yrhither now, has fled thy gold 
For after years?" 

And when thine eyes are all a-blear 
And indistinctly sound you hear, 
And every shadow brings a fear, 
In after years, 

And do you think these will return, — 
These precious moments that you burn. 
If so, some day you'll better learn, — 
In after years. 

In after years, — it seemeth long 
While youth is yet so bright and strong, 
But, aye, too soon you'll find you're wrong 
In after years. 

And these may find you deep in debt, 
And worrj^ bring you much regret. 



A Whistling Farmer 87 

And fain you would the past forget 
In after years. 

Then, while you sift, watch close the sieve. 
The simple life's the life to live, 
For this alone can pleasure give 
In after years. 

The simple drink, the simple food. 
The frown for all that's low and rude, 
For longer life and sweeter mood 
In after years, 

And for each thought, and for each deed. 
Let ''Honor!" be thy sacred creed. 
That in the end no hearts may bleed 
In after years. 

And, like the child that lies asleep, 
Thy conscience clear forever keep. 
And of this sowing thou shalt reap 
In after years. 



ROCK ME TO SLEEP 
Song 

There's a rock-me-to-sleep way of leading this life. 

In social communion with neighbors and friends, 
At home or abroad with our children and wife, 

On which every pleasure of all still depends. 
Then, rock me to sleep in this cradle of love, 

Oh, rock-a-bye, baby, and sing me a song. 
And sweet be the tune, like some choir above. 

While hastening manhood is dashing along. 



8S A Whistling Farmer 

Oh, rock me to sleep, oh, rock me to sleep, 
Then rock me to sleep in this cradle of love ! 

And open the music and sing me a song, 
For deep in the twilight the long shadows creep, 

And night with its darkness comes stealing along. 

For fain in this cradle again I would rest. 

Away from the sorrows of life 's dire alarms, 
A-rocking and rocking as though I were pressed 

Once more in the clasp of my dear mother's arms; 
Then, rock me to sleep in this cradle of love, 

Oh, rock-a-bye, baby, and sing me a song. 
And soft be the tune like some choir above. 

While hastening manhood is dashing along. 

Oh, rock me to sleep, oh, rock me to sleep, 
Then rock me to sleep in this cradle of love ! 

And open the music and strike me a chord. 
For deep in the twilight the long shadows creep. 

As night with its darkness steals over the sward. 

Away, like the dewdrop, — away with our youth. 

Away with this manhood that's passing away! 
Away, like the leaflet, the babe of the wildwood 

That lies in the forest in feeble decay! 
Then, rock me to sleep in this cradle of death. 

Oh, rock-a-bye, baby, and sing me a song, 
And sweet be the music and soft as a breath, 

While hastening manhood is dashing along ; 

Oh, rock me to sleep, oh, rock me to sleep, 
Then rock me to sleep in this cradle once more. 

And turn to the music and sing me a song, 
For, Mary, sweet Mary, life's struggles are o'er. 

And darker and deeper the shadowings throng. 



A Whistling Farmer 89 



VENUS 

When Veniis walked along 
The vale that's known as death, 
She turned and said to all: 
'I pray you come not here 
In search of my abode, 
For in this loathsome grave 
I shall not lay me down 
As other ones have done 
To mingle with the dust ; 
For one hath come to me, 
And touched my longing heart 
With an immortal flame; 
And softly hath he said : 
'Go thou upon thy way 
Through all the lapse of time, 
And lay thy witchery 
Upon the hearts of men. 
That they may imitate 
The glory of thy name.' 
And so, I pass me on 
Beyond, this dreamless sleep. 
For it were sad indeed 
To leave this beauty here 
In moldering decay, 
And be forgotten all 
By every passing age. 
And so I stand aside. 
And ceaseless warnings give 
To every passerby, 
That while some monument 
May tower to the skies 



go A Whistling Farmer 

In memory of me ; 

No one shall point with pride 

To superscriptions here, 

Deep hewn upon the stone, 

That on the morrow may 

Be drifting fields of sand. 

For I shall not be found 

Among these ruins thus, 

Nor shall I be content 

In utter banishment 

Within some dungeon dark. 

No, this shall never be. 

For see, these features mine, 

So full of beauty they. 

My God hath taken them 

And touched the setting sun; 

And from this glowing brow 

He lifts his brush of fire. 

And lo, the rainbow leaps 

Across the eastern sky. 

And so I warnings give 

To each and every one 

That I shall not be found 

Within this cheerless tomb. 

But out among the vales, 

Where starry eves invite 

The elf-folk of the wood, 

Or where the range heaves high 

Her undulating crest 

Aglow at eventide, 

As when the crimson clouds 

In grandeur bank themselves 

Around the setting sun. 

Go there, my friends, go there 

And seek for my retreat 

Among the landscape wild. 



A Whistling Farmer 91 

That lieth strewn around 
The islands of the earth. 
Go there and search for me, 
And I shall be at home 
In every bud that hangs 
In trembling hope around, 
And every blade of grass. 
And every greening field 
^lay claim me as their own. 
For I have thrown aside 
This weary load of flesh, 
That doth so hedge about 
The stumbling feet of all. 
Nor shall I seek again 
The grosser things of life, 
As once I gladly did 
In that remembered past, 
When I as captives led 
The haughty lords of Greece 
Around the festal board ; 
And queened it over all 
The mighty men of state, 
When Athens ruled the world 
In royal pomp and pride. 
Yes. the gi^osser things of life. — 
I 've left them all behind ; 
For men have come at last 
To meekly bow them down 
Before my sacred throne. 
And hail me with delight 
In every fragrant flower. 
And such my God hath said. 
For He hath sought me out 
And whispered in mine ear: 
'Thy beauty shall not fade. 
The stars may dim at last. 



92 A Whistling Farmer 

And earth grow aged and old, 
But thou, fair Venus, thou, — 
But thou shalt never die!' " 



THE WEDDING EING OF CHARLEY OX 

A RING I bought, — a plain gold ring, — 

All burnished off so bright, 
And of its possibilities 

I dreamed me through the night. 

For now this ring, this plain gold ring 

That I had lately bought. 
It seemed to me continually 

With endless pleasures fraught. 

For every ring, — a wedding ring. 

It seems to cast a spell. 
O'er every bliss that heaven knows. 

And these alone they tell. 

And of the darkness on ahead 

No mention is there heard. 
Of strife and hate and enmity, 

There's not a spoken word. 

And so the first around me pressed, 

These joys born of heaven, 
And over all this second state 

These pleasures cast their leaven. 

And strange, I thought, a thing so small 
Could paint a scene like this, 

And elevate the mind of man 
With such exquisite bliss. 



A Whistling Farmer 93 

And lead him on, and on, along 

The beauty paths of earth. 
And charm him with its ecstasy, 

And fill his heart with mirth! 

And there I lay upon my couch 

And mused the night away, 
As only one can ever muse 

Before his wedding day. 

For in these things I saw that I 

Must leave my home behind. 
And Mother's kiss and Father's smile, — 

They rankled in my mind. 

And others that I dearly loved, 

Like Bess and Frank and Will, 
Entreating long throughout the night. 

They pressed around me still. 

And circling on, and ever on, 

Before me passed a scene 
Of golden grain and stately wood 

And meadows rolled between. 

The fields where I had labored long 

From childhood's early day. 
As, like a flash, before my eyes 

They seemed to pass away. 

And plain within this circle now, 

Amid the evening gloam. 
Among the rest at last I saw 

The passing of my home. 

And everything that passed along. 
It seemed to chide me so, 



94 A Whistling Farmer 

And plead they, each and every one 
''Don't go, my dear, don't go!" 

And what a flood of memories 
Filled out the passing night, 

And nearly all of life they seemed 
They brought me such delight. 

And e 'en the room I called my own. 

Its pleadings ever fell. 
O'er all my calculations when 

I came to say farewell. 

And well it might, for in this room 

I wrote my first to Jo, 
And how I tried, and tried again, — 

My hand, it trembled so. 

And how, at last I asked myself: 
''Am I to leave all this. 

And find within a maiden's arms 
Buch unreserved bliss. 

And then it was this wedding ring 
Blazed out a stream of light, 

And like some burning meteor 
Illumined all the night. 

And darted here, and darted there. 
And all about my room, 

And this so swift, I often failed 
To trace it in the gloom. 

And sparks it flung along the way. 
And mad it seemed to be. 

And on its way it loudly hissed, — 
And hissed continually. 



A Whistling Farmer 95 

And when it stopped I saw a frown, 

Then, like some giant tall, 
This ring rose up confronting me, 

And towered over all. 

And who art thou, it said aloud, 
That would these scenes adore?'* 

And passing now, it gruffly bowed, 
And, silent, said no more. 

And when all these had gone their way, — 

These horrors of the night. 
Near by my couch, in easy reach, 

I saw another light. 

And this was, oh ! so beautiful 

That I can never tell, 
How like a gift from God it came 

And all around me fell. 

And, with that smile to gaze upon, 

I roused me from my bed. 
And on and on, and ever on, 

AVe two together fled. 

And now the years have flown so fast 
My wife, she says they^re seven. 

But I don't know, nor do I care. 
Since love is born in heaven. 



THE TREES 

It's nice to live, and grow, and be 
Familiar with each shrub and tree. 
And every vale, and every road 
That lies around our long abode. 



96 A Whistling Farmer 

And nice to grow where others grow, 
And nice to see and hear and know 
The faces that we've known so long, 
All wreathed with smiles among the throng. 
And sweeter far are all these things. 
That long association brings, 
Than aught I know of wealth or fame 
That fickle fortune may proclaim. 
For here the mind seems more at ease 
Among these old companion trees, 

' ' And this one here, ' ' we tell our friends, — 

"And this one here that lowly bends, — 
Upon this linden by the road. 
As children once we often rode. 
And asked the travelers on the ground 
How far it was to Grumley Town." 
And this was sweet, but age, more dear, 
Confronting stands before us here, 
And points to every field that 's sown, 
And every meadow that is mown. 
And every place that lies around 
The shady groves to Grumley Town, 
And every brook, and waterfall, 
So dear they are, — I love them all. 
And how I pity those who roam 
And leave behind their native home. 
And hold but lightly all those things 
The sacredness of memory brings. 
And so it seems that age should be 
Familiar with each grove and tree. 
And every hill, and every road. 
That lies around our long abode, 

*'And see this tree," — we point to one 
That sheds afar the burning sun, — 

''And this one here, 'twas but a sprig. 
Long years ago, — about so big! 



A Whistling Farmer 97 

But see it now; but see its growth, 

And aye, my friend, behold us both ! ' ' 

And while we muse, with eyes that fill, 

This scene comes back and haunts us still, 

For there 's no life that one can live 

That can again such pleasures give 

As rambling over, in our mind, 

Some native grove we left behind. 

And if the child these things could see, 

Each one would go and plant a tree, 

And talk to it, and hug it round, 

And think of it as holy ground. 

And could they feel what age can feel, 

No woodman, with his ax of steel, 

Should ever come and chop it down, 

To lie and rot upon the ground. 

And of you all, where'er you be, 

I beg 3^ou: Go and plant a tree, 

And let its branches widely spread 

Above the living and the dead. 

A sprig will do, — a tiny sprig, — 

For time will make it strong and big, 

And bid its life flow on and on. 

For ages after you are gone. 

So, choose your own, but as for me, 

I dearly love the poplar tree. 



THE WARNING 



Through my window, partly open, 
Through my door, wide ajar. 

Comes a whisper, comes a token. 
Like some spirit from afar, 



gS A Whistling Farmer 

In the midniglit, in its darkness, 

In the silence of the hour, 
I was startled from my slumher 

By a timepiece in the tower, 

Gonging out its doleful warning. 

With a sadness in its chime, 
Gonged the midnight, gonged the morning, 

Gonged the swiftly passing time ; 

Gonged of waitings and of longings 
Backward through my open door, 

Gonged a footstep, lightly falling, 
I shall never hear no more 

Gonged my father's old plantation, 
And the forest, held so dear, 

Gonged the pleasures and temptations 
That in youth are always near; 

Gonged the seasons swiftly flying, 
Gonged the sadness and the mirth, 

Gonged the living and the dying 
And the deeds of noble worth ; 

Gonged a host of recollections 
Scattered down along the years, 

Gonged of home and sweet affections, 
Gonged at last a flood of tears. 

Things that I had long forgotten, 
Gonged out boldly in the night, 

Youth and beaut}^ stood before me 
Robed in varied garments bright. 



A Whistling Farmer 99 

Fame and honor and distinction, 
Gonged a long and honeyed speech, 

Fawned and smiled and stood before me 
Just beyond my nervous reach. 

In this maze of somber soundings. 

Ghostlike in the horrid night, 
Came a gong at last that found me 

Trembling for the tardy light. 

Stop ! " I cried, ' ' my heart is breaking ! 

Stop the ringing of that bell ! " 
But its gonging and its quaking 

Still within my chamber fell, 

Through my window, partly open, 

Through my door, wide ajar. 
Came that whisper, came that token. 

Like some spirit from afar. 

In the midnight, in its darkness, 

In the silence of the hour, 
Some bright angel must have spoken 

Through the gonging of the tower. 



JOHNNY JOLT 

'If I have luck,'' I heard one say, 
I'll be a wealthy man some day." 

' And I, if I but keep my health, ' ' 
Another said, ''I'll gather wealth.' 
And many more, in whispers soft, 
They ever held this "if" aloft, 



100 A Whistling Farmer 

And spoke of it, as though some charm 

Could put a muscle in the arm, 

Or give to thought a thing of worth 

That lays in tribute all the earth. 

And so these ^ ' if s " and " if s " I found, 

As thick as clods upon the ground, 

Until one day I met a boy, — 

So frank and free, and full of jo}^ 

I stopped to talk with him awhile, 

And ask about his constant smile. 

' ' And why all this, ' ' to him I said ; 

^'It seems you labor for your bread; 
And wear old clothes that many shun, 
And yet you have a world of fun. ' ' 

''Well, I don't care for 'ifs,' you see, 
I make these 'ifs' look out for me. 
As when I make a sudden bolt. 
And cry: 'Look out for Johnny Jolt!' 
And every ' if, ' it clears the track. 
And sneaks around behind my back. 
Oh, yes; I'm small, and yet I've found, 
They know danged well when I'm around. 
Some folks, I know, are full of ' if s, ' — 
They're like a stream that's full of drif 's, 
That clog the waters as they go, 
And makes them lazy in their flow. 
Not me, I labor like I play. 
And Pa says I'll get rich some day. 
Against small things, — this 'if and 'if,' 
I square myself, and biff! and hiff! 
To show the world what pluck can do 
ThaFs got the grit to see it through. 
And then I'm off, just like some colt. 
And so, they call me 'Johnny Jolt.' " 



A Whistling Farmer loi 



PLEAS PREWETT'S WATCH 

My watch is my mentor, 

And down through the night, 
As snug as a bahy 

Or wee little sprite, 
Impinging, it whispers 

And whispers to me 
Of things I'd forgotten, — 

As plain as can be. 

Down under my pillow 

This wee, tiny thing, 
A-tick and a-titter, 

Escapement and spring. 
Awake, or a-slumber. 

By day and by night, 
It's telling me ever 

Of time's hurried flight. 

And oft, when I'm torpid, 

It seemeth to sa.y, 
Arouse thee, my master. 

And hurry away! 
The lark and the linnet 

Are out in the sky, 
I warn you this minute 

To hurry and fly! 

The day is advancing, 

The hour is late, 
Thy calling demands it, 

For others await 



102 A Whistling Farmer 

Thy coming, — for council 
And various things 

That life with its duties 
Incessantly brings." 

And so, to thee ever, 

I fly for relief, 
In pleasures abounding, 

In sickness and grief, 
My faithful companion. 

And prompter and guide. 
Directing my movements. 

Enhancing my pride ! 

While some may deceive me 

And laugh at my plight, 
I turn to my timepiece 

And find it all right. 
And ever, my brother, — 

Thou wee, little thing, 
A-tick with escapement 

A-iing and a-ting, 

When darkness is fading 

And daylight is near, 
Down under my pillow 

It seems I can hear 
A gladness, a warning 

Impinging for me 
Along in the morning, — 

As plain as can be. 

"Arouse thee, my master," 

It's saying again, 
''For all through the nighttime 

You've peacefully lain. 



A Whistling Farmer 103 

Arouse thee from slumber, 

The night's fled away, 
Why longer incumber 

The beautiful day?" 

And then, of a sudden. 

It's changing so quick, 
Outflinging and ringing 

A beautiful tick, 
Resounding triumphant 

In cadences nice. 
Like waters a-trickle 
Down under the ice. 

But only a moment 

Of beautiful things 
This jumble and grumble 

Of tittering brings. 
Resembling a language 

In some foreign tongue. 
That seemeth to mumble 

Down deep in the lung. 

Then oft I imagine 

It's ranging so far 
That earth is forgotten 

And space is no bar 
To many a wonder 

Its musings unfold. 
If I could unravel 

The story that's told! 

And yet, for my business, 

Its language is plain, 
And so, I consult it 

Again and again, 



104 A Whistling Farmer 

Assured that its promptings 
Will lead me aright, 

On all of life's journey, 
By day, and by night. 

And oft, when I'm busy, 

At morning and eve. 
Its whisperings ever 

Assail me and leave 
A host of reminders. 

Laid out for the day. 
To village and hamlet 

And friends far away. 

As faithful as ever 

This wee, tiny thing, 
A-twang with escapement, 

A-twing! and a-twing! 
Never stopping to slumber, 

With honesty bright, 
The moments you number, 

And keep them aright. 

But aye, little brother. 

While happy to-day, 
I warn you that happiness 

Passes away. 
For rogues will assail thee. 

And tear thee apart, 
And twist thee, and maim thee, 

With blundering art. 
And put thee together. 

As often they do, 
O'erlooking some lever. 

Or jewel, or screw; 



A Whistling Farmer 105 

And cause thee to wabble, 

And falter, and say: 
Some thieves have undone me, — 

A-twang! and a-twangi 
Some plundering, blundering 

Jeweler gang 
That grabbed me, and stabbed me 

With many a punch. 
And tossed me and lost me 

Down under a bunch 
Of Ingersoll mouse-traps 

They had in a box. 
Along with some rubbers 

And old dirty socks. 

And since, dear old master, 

So keenly I feel 
Impending disaster 

In mainspring and wheel, 
I pray you, excuse me 

From service awhile. 
For they've so abused me 

With chisel and file, 
No more can you reckon 

On what I may say. 
Or heed when I beckon 

Along by the way." 

And while I may seek thee, 

I'll seek thee in vain, 
Down under my pillow, — 

My watch and my chain; 
And many a titter 

Of suddenness quick, 
Outflinging and ringing 

A beautiful tick. 



io6 A Whistling Farmer 

And bounding triumphant 

In ecstasy oft, 
"When sweet admonitions, 

In whisperings soft, 
Have turned me from folly 

And vanity's flight, 
To deeds of humanity, 

Mercy, and right. 

An aid to my promptness, 

A guide to my feet 
In youth's early rompings 

Of bitter and sweet. 
When passions are strongest. 

And urgent and keen, 
And time seems the longest 

Betwixt and between 
The morning and evening 

And close of the day, 
When homeward the toilers 

Are wending their way. 

When business is over 

And houses all close, 
And minds are relaxing 

For rest and repose. 
How often thy promptings, 

That I've overlooked. 
Has caused me to mutter 

For something unbooked: 
Some item forgotten 

As time fled away 
In planning and plotting. 

Along through the day. 



A Whistling Farmer 107 

And then I shall miss you, 

As soon as you're gone, — 
At morning and evening. 

And bedtime and dawn. 
For, dear little comrade, 

Companion and friend, 
This heart that is beating. 

Some time it will end. 
And this smiling facelet, 

So beaming to-day. 
Like all that is mortal. 

Will soon pass away. 
And these little hands 

That go round and round. 
And this tiny spring. 

That so bounds and bounds 
And lever and casement. 

And jewel and chain, 
And shafting and crystal, 

And all of this train 
Will cease, and for ever, — 

As if you had breath, — 
And join with our vanguard 

That's marching to death 
Across the great desert 

Of matter and rust 
Composing our ocean, — 

An ocean of dust. 



io8 A Whistling Farmer 



THE SQUIRRELS IN THE FOREST 

PROLOGUE 

When God had formed the universe, with care He 

planned 
The many startling wonders that's found in every 

land. 
The glacial void He made, and towering summits 

pale, 
Too steep and rugged far for mortal foot to scale ; 
And yet, that wide expanse upon the pathless deep, 
Where still the tireless tides forever onward sweep. 
As well, the new-born life he made, and hopeful 

smile, and glee. 
And growth, and progress all upon the land and sea. 
And on each blade of grass, and each and all His 

works, 
A Master's hand we see before us ever lurks. 
And to the rose He gave the crimson of its hue, 
And sowed the distant worlds within a field of blue. 
And while this subtle search goes on in every land, 
Forever, on and on His endless fields expand. 
So dim this mystery, as when the sun was young, 
Before the pall of death around the moon was flung, — 
As when her rivers dashed, and every flowery dell 
Still swarmed life in that long ago. — ^Who can tell ? 
Alas, for me and mine ! Too deep for mortal ken. 
Too wild, the precipice to climb, too dark the dismal 

glen. 

After untold measures 

Of the fleeting years. 
And gladness and sadness, 

And longing and tears, 



A Whistling Farmer 109 

From the ages now gone, 

The drowsing and dreaming, 
To the slow coming dawn 

Of this long sought gleaming; 
And the flow of the ice. 

And the storm cloud and frost, 
When continents slept 

Like a treasure that's lost. 
And the shifting oceans, 

The seas and the lakes, 
And the volcanic crash 

With its murderous quakes ; 
And the rivers of stone. 

And the fire and the flood. 
And the carnage wrought 

On her fields of blood; 
And the savage nude. 

And the dwellers in caves, 
Where the spirit yearned 

And shrieked and raved. 

With pleasant emotions 

Enraptured at last, 
I turned from the dead 

And the long buried past. 
Like a bolt from the skies, 

My senses are hurled, 
And I drink from the fount 

Of a beautiful world. 



PART I 

O'er some gray old ruin 
That's covered with mold. 

Where time out of mind 
In silence has rolled, 



no A Whistling Farmer 

Slow plodding, I wander 

With pencil and book, 
Where the sunbeams flirt 

With the babbling brook. 
And sitting me down 

On the ledge of a rock, 
Where the wild waves leap 

With a plunging shock, 
I'm writing a line 

Of some wee little friends, 
Whose soft, glossy coat 

So gracefully blends 
With the moss-covered granite, 

Bestrewing the stream. 
Near the clear bubbling fountains 

That glitter and gleam 
In the primeval forest, 

With its vast solitudes. 
Where the mysteries of Nature 

Seem locked in the woods. 



And here, in this covert, 

Still laden with mast, 
When the life-giving season 

Was still throbbing fast, 
I found a small squirrel 

That lived all alone, 
In this grand old forest, 

That he called his home. 
And like to the coon, 

And the wild honey bee, 
He'd built him a home 

In a great hollow tree, 
And here he was living 

A riotous life. 



A Whistling Farmer iii 

AVhen he dropped me a hint 

That he needed a wife. 
And soon after this, 

When out on a lark, 
He heard in the distance 

A low, plaintive bark; 
And musing, he murmured : 

''And what can this be?'' 
Is this but the rasping 

Of some aged tree 
That, lodged in the forest 

For years in the past, 
Is seeking its former 

Position at last ? 
Or some little robin, — 

TVith quivering breast, — 
That strives in defense 

Of her young and her nest?" 
And then, once again, 

From the woodland so dark, • 
There broke on his senses 

That low, plaintive bark. 
And not like the sounding 

Of one that's in peril. 
But the low plaintive notes 

Of a wee, maiden squirrel. 
And quick as a flash now 

He sprang to his feet, 
Disdaining the nut he 

Was starting to eat, 
And frisking his tail that 

Was bushy and stanch. 
He flew like an arrow 

From branch unto branch. 
For true as the plummet, 

And true as the line, 



112 A Whistling Farmer 

This passion of passions 
Is surely divine! 

And when he had mounted 

The hill's level crest, 
He paused for a moment 

In taking some rest, 
And close to his hand now, 

Among the green trees, — 
Ever tossing and swinging 

Away in the breeze, — 
Was a ravishing vision 

Of sweet maidenhood, 
Bedecking with beauty 

The shimmering wood. 
And he smiled at her. 

And she smiled at him. 
While both were advancing, 

Each one on their limb. 
And he, like a monarch 

That covets the earth, 
With an unhidden pride 

In his high, noble birth, 
And she, like a lady. 

Of the highest degree. 
Advancing to welcome 

Some proud majesty. 

And when every greeting 

Had gone by the way. 
And his heart stood silent 

For something to say, 
Then he spoke of the weather, 

The clouds and the rain. 
And faltered and stammered,- 

And stammered again. 



A Whistling Farmer 113 

While she, with her vision 

Demurely cast down, 
Stood, pleading excuses 

For toilet and gown. 
And thus it was, humor 

Went tossing about. 
Like one that is angling 

For some wary trout. 
And flashed on the stage there, 

In passing review, 
A scene that's as old as 

The Wandering Jew. 
But, if ever a venture 

Of ardent desire. 
Came tripping along 

With its youthful fire, 
It was boldly routed 

And speedily slain. 
And the hours of pleasure 

Continued again, 



And swifter than ' ever 

The time flew away, 
Till the sun was engulfed 

In the far distant bay. 
Then slowly arising, 

He graciously said. 
With a debonair swing 

Of his great massive head: 
I call on my friends in 

The cool eventide. 
And mounting the branches. 

We swing and we ride. 
Till the shadows are looming 

Away in the west. 



114 A Whistling Farmer 

And then I'm for home and 

My soft, mossy nest. 
There I eat from my stores, 

That are juicy and fine, 
And I drink to my fill from 

The sugar tree's wine. 
And life's such a pleasure 

The long summer day! 
I ramble and gambol 

And frolic and play, 
Till the goddess of night 

Slips into her gown. 
And, drawing the folds of 

Her curtains around 
My wee little mansion, 

So lonely and still, 
No sound, save the water. 

That falls at the mill. 
And then, I go walking 

Alone on my floor. 
And peep from my window, 

And gaze from the door. 
Till a vision unfolds 

In the hush of the night, 
Like a halo of glory 

Encircled with light. 



< ( 



It's a beautiful home 

In a great linden tree. 
Where ever the birdies 

Are singing to me, 
And the mountains arise 

And the meadows so green, 
And the flashing spray 

Of the blue lake is seen, 



A Whistling Farmer 115 

And the river nearby, 

With its swift, flowing tide, 
Moves out to the brink 

Of the ocean so wide. 
And winding around on 

The marge of the vales, 
There's an endless webbing 

Of beautiful trails 
That lead to the summit 

Of the rounding swells, 
On the marginal brink ' 

Of the dark, fragrant dells. 
And the vine-covered bowers 

On a distant knoll, 
Where I love to loiter 

And ponder and stroll. 
In this grand old forest. 

That all the day long. 
Is mocking my folly 

With pleasure and song. 
And my heart goes out 

For a soft friendly hand. 
Like others I'm meeting 

All over the land. 
And, oh ! for a greeting. 

And, oh! for a sigh, 
In my dear little home 

As the years go by. 



'But time hurries, dearest, 
And yet, ere we part, 

I must unfold more clearly 
The wish of my heart: 

Some fairy queen I seek 
To grace my lovely bowers. 



ii6 A Whistling Farmer 

Some congenial spirit dear 

To speed away the hours 
Of darkness and regret, — 

A treasure, love, a light 
For my window of sorrow, 

Some gladness for to-day, 
And pleasure for to-morrow. 

And, then, to banish forever 

This canker-worm of care 
That seems so baneful now, 

Existing everywhere ; 
And half of all I have 

I barter for a wife 
To cheer me on my way 

Adown the stream of life." 

* ' But no, my friend, alas ! 

These things can never be; 
For other love I have 

Sufficient unto me." 
''But you forget, dearest, 

For ages in the past 
My ancestors have ruled 

The forest and the mast. 
And none may here intrude 

Or, even passing, roam 
In marring the beauties 

Around our regal home. 
For my father, remember, 

Was a ruler of Spain, 
And my mother a duchess. 

The Lord bless her name ! 
And see, dearest, see me, 

And see how I'm bred. 
And see this, my stature, 

And how I am fed. 



A Whistling Farmer 117 

And as for a prowess, 

I falter at none, — 
No squirrel that ever 

Has glanced at the sun ! 
And my fur's just as soft 

As the robe of the mole, 
And my color resembles 

The pure, native gold. 
And please, dearest, please. 

Just say you'll be mine, 
And this day and this hour 

Will be near divine." 



Yes, I know your people, 

Your prowess and name. 
And I've seen you enter 

The struggle for fame, 
And hidden securely, 

For hours and hours, 
I've watched you displaying 

Your wonderful powers, 
And often, I grant you, 

I've felt rather proud, 
When I've seen you carried 

Away by the crowd. 
But what of the prowess, 

The pride, of the whale. 
That crushes the ship with 

A stroke of his tail? 
Away with your honors, 

And your stores of wealth. 
And your royal lineage 

And cunning and stealth. 
But one gift there is, 

And just one alone, 



ii8 A Whistling Farmer 

That the Master has sent 

From His great gleaming throne 
To gladden the youthful, 

And strengthen the old, 
That's bidding defiance 

To honors and gold. 
And, sir, that is love, 

Pure love of the heart, 
So lasting, e'en death 

Cannot rend it apart; 
Destroy this alone. 

And all is destroyed. 
And life is a vacuum. 

And death is a void. 
Nor would I exchange. 

For one single hour. 
This God-given rapture 

Of wonderful power, 
For all of earth's treasures, 

And honors and fame. 
Nor even for history's 

Undying name. 
You have much to admire,' 

I grant you, but this, — 
But this is the fountain 

Of all earthly bliss. 
No, no, indeed, sir; 

Your scroll, you may furl, 
For I am engaged to 

A very nice squirrel." 



Then white grew his face, 
From these terrible blows, 

As he clung to his limb 

With his arms and his toes; 



A Whistling Farmer 119 

As harshly, and sadly, 

And, oft with a sigh, 
A-tremble with passion, 

He made this reply : 

It was you who called from 

The forest so dark, 
'Twas you, too, who kindled 

This long dormant spark!" 
As he rose to his height, 

And towering above her, 
Declaring his hatred 

For her absent lover. 
And then he bowed to her, 

And she bowed to him, 
While homeward they turned. 

Each one on their limb. 
While the dark clouds covered 

The blue of the sky. 
And sharp forked lightnings 

Were fast drawing nigh, 
O'er the trail he went out, 

With spirits so light. 
And the spaces he leaped 

Like a bird in its flight. 
He was now falling short 

In many a bound. 
And he frothed in his rage 

As he fell to the ground. 
And he seemed to have aged 

So much in a day. 
While plodding with anger 

Along by the way. 

And when he had reached 
His cottage at last. 



120 A Whistling Farmer 

He went to his hoardings 

To break his long fast, 
Once there, he soon found out 

That he could not eat, 
Each morsel seemed bitter. 

And nothing was sweet. 
And then he went walking 

Alone on his floor. 
Where he'd walked and talked 

So often before. 
While a moan from his heart 

Swept out on the air, 
Like a moan of distress, 

Like a wail of despair. 
'Twas the ever old story, 

Of unsated love, 
The spent dreams of glory — 

The cold, distant glove. 
But, regaining composure, 

And speaking aloud. 
With the fire of youth 

And a spirit still proud: 
"Still, there is left for me 

All my worldly goods, 
These enchanted mountains 

And the solemn woods ; 
And hedged all around by 

The towering rocks. 
Are my beautiful gardens 

Near the briar locks. 
And my vast estates; 

Wide, fertile, and grand. 
That flash like the jewels 

On a lady's soft hand; 
And Ponduray, fair Ponduray, 

My fickle IMary, 



A Whistling Farmer 121 

And my river gray — 

The beautiful gray — 
And the belle of Boner's Ferry. 

My river, so deep, 
So wide and so strong, 

Where the waves ever sweep 
In murmurs along. 

Ever turning and yearning 
In their hurrying flight, 

With never a rest through 
The long weary night, 

But onward and onward, 
And still ever on. 

And on to their home in the ocean. 



''But why should I worry, 

There's other fine lands. 
Where the mast-laden forest 

Profusely expands. 
Still, in all of my travels. 

Around and around. 
Not one single valley 

Have I yet ever found, 
That seems like home to me. 

Here, my life I have spent. 
And in sight of these waves, 

I have builded my tent. 
By my dead people's graves 

That are far strewn around, 
In many a covert 

Of this holy ground. 
And where should I go now. 

To better my lot. 
That fond recollections 

May follow me not? 



122 A Whistling Farmer 

Will tlie promptings of youth 

In time fade away, 
Ere I slumher forever 

In lasting decay; 
What folly to mention 

A problem like this, 
As though one could gather 

From strangers a bliss, 
To equal this pleasant 

Contentment of mind, 
That distance would ruin 

In leaving behind. ' ' 



PART n 

*'In the years that are gone, 

How often I've heard 
My grandfather telling, 

With memory blurred. 
Of some hunter's retreat, 

Some pioneer's dream, 
Wliere the rich soils mingle 

With forest and stream, 
When the Red Man's flight, 

Then fairly begun, 
Was shaping its course 

With the bright Western sun. 
And the buck and the bison 

Were still on the throne, 
And the crack of the rifle 

As yet scarcely known; 
Some old log cabins stood 

Built under the hill, 
Where the ferryboat played 

So smoothly and still. 



A Whistling Farmer 123 

And a few paltry acres 

Were planted in corn, 
In sight of the oak tree 

Where father was born. 
And here, while the seasons 

Went gliding away, 
To me, they were ever 

Much like yesterday; 
When all of this forest, 

The glade and the glen. 
In a silence yet slumbered. 

Reverting to when 
The horse and the saddle 

Were the emblems of speed, 
And the bit, and the bridle. 

That guided the steed, 
And a strong iron hand 

Ever grasping the rein, 
And a keen flashing eye. 

And a wide-awake brain. 
As onw^ard and onward 

Forever he pressed, 
With his eye on the foe. 

And his face to the West. 



"By the overland journey. 

Across the wide plains. 
Or sought by the foe in 

The wild mountain chains. 
He stayed not his journey, 

No moment was lost. 
Till his banner swung free 

O'er the far Western coast. 
And many a settler, 

In joining his cause, 



124 A Whistling Farmer 



Was slain, scalped, and mangled 

With savage applause. 
But along his whole route, 

Where the fierce conflict rung, 
Full many a beautiful 

City has sprung. 
Where the plowman is driving 

His teams far afield. 
And the toilers are reaping 

An abundant yield. 

"But now, our golden age 

Forever has fled. 
And many are the friends 

I mourn with the dead. 
Not a landmark is left 

In the old village here, 
Where the tall buildings mount 

Way up in the air, 
And, wherever I go. 

In strolling around. 
My favorite timber 

Is kissing the ground. 

"And, thus, with the white man. 

His folly pursuing. 
The whole country's going 

To wreck and ruin. 
In a few more decades 

The forest and plain 
Will revert to unending 

Dry deserts again. 
I've worried and tried, 

And long have I planned, 
For something to loosen 

The grip of his hand, 



A Whistling Farmer 125 

But the time seemeth near 

When my friends and me 
Must flee for our lives 

From my grandfather's tree. 
For its plant, and its till, 

And its sow, and its reap, 
From the earliest dawn 

Till it comes time to sleep, 
But grandfather's gone, 

With his once rohust form. 
And how clearly he saw 

The approaching storm." 



PART III 

*'Last eve at the spring, 

When I was out walking, 
Way down by the block house, 

I heard noisy talking. 
And all seemed confusion. 

Excitement, and fear, 
Like some deadly foeman 

Were there lurking near. 
Then hurrying homeward, 

I barred every door. 
And waited and listened 

For the conflict's roar, 
But after the darkness 

In silence went by, 
'They're frightened, by crackey!- 

They're frightened!' said I. 
But, next morning, instead 

Of soldier and sword, 
I found in the valley 

A wonderful board 



126 A Whistling Farmer 

Of giant proportions, — 

A hundred feet long, 
All ribbed and bolted 

Together so strong, 
And a long bony finger 

A-pointing the trail : 
'Ten thousand beautiful 

' Lots for sale ! ' 
And, merciful God, they are 

Planning a town ; 
For, men, I could see them 

Out sighting around. 
With flagpole and compass. 

They bent to their lines. 
Deep down in the timber 

And wild, thorny vines, 
And hilltop and valley. 

And out by the moor, 
Where no human footprint 

Ever pressed there before. 
And some time before this, 

I'd noticed a man, 
Away up the gulch there, 

At work with a pan; 
And often he'd mumble 

And smile with delight; 
And then in his pocket 

He'd drop something bright. 
And rushing to camp now, 

He hurriedly told, 
He'd found in the mountains 

A pocket of gold. 
And then off I hurried. 

As never before. 
For another long walk 

On my old cottage floor. 



A Whistling Farmer 127 

And, with meditation long 

And resolution deep, 
I felt the coming night 

Would find me shorn of sleep ; 
And such a vrorld of troubles — 

They made my senses reel, 
And seemed to lock my heart 

As with a bolt of steel. 
' And why, ' I asked myself, 

'Why tempt the laws of fate 
Or seek to bar the way 

Of man's estate? 
Since unto me has come 

The very day and hour 
When I must bid adieu 

To every smiling bower ? 
And now, for yonder height, 

.Since other lands have won. 
To cast one longing look 

Upon the setting sun. 
How beautiful the scenes 

Around me doth unfold, — 
The forest and the river wide. 

The bay and ocean bold ! 
And yonder lie the vales ; 

And here the hills are tossed ; 
And spread around I see 

The kingdom I have lost. 
But why, regretful muse, 

Since every hope is gone ! ' 
And here I turned around 

And strode me further on. 



**And so I come at last 
To say farewell to thee, 



128 A Whistling Farmer 

My birthplace and my cradle, too, 

Thou old and faithful tree. 
But how can I forget! 

"Will recollection fade? 
Are other ties as strong 

As those that youth has made? 
No, no; I 'most forgot, — 

I'm living in the past. 
And so, I'll keep my home, 

And meet my fate at last." 
The twilight deepens fast, 

And darker grows the glow 
As homeward now he turns 

"With feeble step and slow. 

PART IV 

And, when outraged nature 

Could suffer no more, 
He curled up in bed 

And proceeded to snore, 
And he dreamed a dream 

Of the days that were gone, 
"When pleasures were plenty 

In youth's early daAvn, 
And his dream led him onward, 

And on through the maze, 
To the full fruition 

Of life, and its ways. 
But ever, and always. 

In the darkness, still, 
Before him arose there 

That scene o'er the hill; 
And there was the mountain, 

The pick, and the pan, 



A Whistling Farmer 129 

And by him went dashing 

That same plucky man 
That labor and patience 

Forever employs, 
In building a city 

And making a noise — 
Just faintly, in starting 

In its infant form, 
But later grows louder. 

Resembling a storm. 
Here, a slow-moving object 

Crept into his dream, 
'Twas the ark of the desert, 

'Twas an old ox team. 
And shortly another 

Came plodding along. 
Assigned to its place in 

The gathering throng. 
And others, and others. 

And still many a one, 
Till the smudging shut out 

The glare of the sun. 
And out of the Southland, 

The East, and the West, 
Like clouds overcasting. 

Around him they pressed — 
The great and the strong now, 

The young and the old — 
And loudly they called them 

For silver and gold. 
And from every country. 

And nation and tongue. 
And every condition 

The whole world among. 
And Europe loud echoed 

The call of the plain, 



130 A Whistling Farmer 

While the New World welcomed 

Again and again. 
And the dash of our streams, 

And the pinnacle bold, 
Poured forth all their treasures 

Of silver and gold. 
And our country has prospered 

In wealth and in fame. 
And she's built for herself 

An undying name. 
And gone is the warfare. 

And gone is the wail 
That hung like a blight 

O'er the Santa Fe trail, 
And gone is the hunter. 

And gone is the scout, 
Who oft risked their lives 

On that far northern route. 
But not of this rumble 

Just over the hill, 
That grows ever louder, 

And yet louder still. 
For now it's a city 

Of culture and worth, 
Bespoken, and answered, 

Around the whole earth. 
Behold the builders here, 

For love, for home, for lust, 
One goes, another comes 

And finds his scattered dust. 
He, too, must build some 

Rockribbed palace grand. 
He's gone — another's here. 

And, lo! the drifting sand! 
With smiles for the sunshine 

And frowns for the gloom. 



A Whistling Farmer 131 

And then, a long sweet rest 
In some friendly tomb. 



PART V 

But, how vain are the calls 

Of a silken couch, 
When the heart is locked 

In a sullen grouch. 
And thus do we find him, 

All nerveless again, 
By goblins, who torture 

The wreck of his brain, 
With chatter and clatter 

And beckoning hands. 
And mischievous snicker 

While laying their plans. 
The hag and the hellion, 

The imp and the sprite, 
Like a horrible stench 

Polluting the night. 
And a spirit in black. 

With a foul, noisome breath, 
Came to him and whispered: 

**I'm the spirit of death! 
And why all this trouble 

Down here in the world — 
Come, join with our band. 

My dear little squirr'l, 
It's only a trifle 

From life to the grave, 
'Tis life for the coward. 

And death for the brave." 
And then, he awakened, 

Whirled over in bed, 



132 A Whistling Farmer 

And springing afoot 

In a passion, lie said: 
"What, how dare you thus, 

When I've spent all my life 
On the field of honor 

And the lists of strife ! 
I'd rather die the death 

And rot on the ground, 
And he torn by vultures 

And scattered around. 
But, if this be the course 

The bravest pursue, 
I'm ready to prove what 

A bold heart can do." 
And while he made ready, 

With seeming delight. 
This spirit of evil 

Stepped back in the night. 
Then, taking his paper, 

His ink, and his pen, 
He wrote a few words 

To his one dearest friend, 
And signing his name now, 

With never a sigh. 
With calmness, he murmured: 

" I 'm ready to die. ' ' 
And grabbing his knife. 

He flew to his glass, 
And gauging his arm for 

A sure, fatal pass. 
But one instant longer. 

And this gleaming dart 
Will plunge to the hilt 

In his fluttering heart. 
But he faltered a moment — 

Abstracted, and still — 



A Whistling Farmer 133 

Like some noble statue 

Adorning the hill. 
''Pray, let me assist you 

In your delicate task," 
Said the spirit in black 

To the squirrel at last. 
And then, with her fingers 

All dabbled in blood, 
She made a death cross 

O'er his pure fountain flood. 
And her touch seemed to break 

This magical spell, 
And out from his throat 

Leaped a horrible yell. 
"It's murder! it's murder!" 

He cried with a might, 
''It's murder! it's murder!" 

Loud echoed the night. 
And then, from his dresser, 

He rushed to the door. 
While flinging his knife 

With a crash, to the floor. 
"And what in the world now! 

And what have I done? 
And see how I tremble ! 

And why should I run? 
And was that, I wonder. 

Some demon who fell. 
That threw all about me 

This magical spell? 
In seeking to lure me 

To the very brink 
Of a tragedy here, 

Before I could think? 
Away with your falsehoods 

And dastardly cries! 



134 A Whistling Farmer 

You midniglit purveyor 

Of slander and lies! 
And thus, he hurled defiance 

At the spirit in black, 
But never an answer 

Was ever sent back. 
And waiting in silence 

Alone where he stood, 
Kepeating verbatim 

The whispering wood: 
**Ah, 'twas only a nightmare, 

'Twas only a dream, 
Or some passing riffle 

In life's rugged stream. 
I must try once again 

For a few hours' rest," 
He said as he looked for 

The blood on his breast, 
''And may I be meeting 

With more pleasant dreams, 
And social companions 

And sylvan streams." 
And, while Morpheus watched 

O'er his couch of ease, 
He lay down to slumber 

Among the green trees. 



PART VI 

And now to his slumber 
Comes an intruding hand, 

So gentle in its motion 
It seems a magic wand; 

A vapor, indistinct. 

It beckons for the light, 



A Whistling Farmer 135 

And broken, flings aside 

The barricades of night. 
And with its noiseless feet 

It dashes through the door, 
While sudden imprecations 

From every corner pour. 
And routing and clouting 

These demons of night, 
Old devils, and young devils, 

Went, yelping, in flight. 
And then, to his slumber, 

As he lay in his bed. 
The Great Spotless Spirit 

Came to him and said: 
*'My mission on earth is 

The ending of strife. 
For I am the Spirit — 

The Spirit of Life. 
And I bring glad tidings 

From the Gracious Giver 
Of pleasures eternal 

Beyond the dark river. 
And always, in passing 

Along by the way, 
To gladden some sorrow, 

I stop but to say: 
'These infinite promptings 

The Master has given. 
But faintly remind us 

Of what is in heaven. 
And what of your troubles, 

Your hopes, and your plan? 
All these I may hold in 

The palm of my hand.' 
And now, for a prowess 

In all that you do — 



136 A Whistling Farmer 

For weakness is fatal 

For lovers that's true — 
But stren^li, vital strength, 

Can brave Fate's every trial, 
And constantly wear 

An affable smile. 
And, there's more in grace, 

And the gracious giver, 
Than there is in pomp. 

Or the pompous liver. 
And be ever as firm 

As the rugged mountain; 
But your life must flow 

Like the sweetest fountain. 
And bow to this mandate, 

That comes from above, 
And stake all your fortune 

On the altar of love. 
And for love like this, 

That knoweth no bounds, 
You may stamp in the dust 

All your glittering crowns. 
Gro get you some flowers. 

And a bonny, bright ring: 
These mellow the hours 

Of love and its sting. 
And the ring you should keep 

For that one cherished hour, 
For the flash of its circle 

Has a magical power. 
And, at morn on the morrow. 

At the first peep of day, 
Make ample provision. 

And scoff at delay. 
For love is so fickle. 

So keen, and so swift, 



A Whistling Farmer 137 

It cuts like a sickle 

In its stormy drift, 
Resembling a vessel, 

As it chops and it knocks 
Against tlie fogbound coast 

And the splintered rocks. 
And go to her parents 

And graciously say: 
'I've a moment to spare 

In passing to-day, 
And see, I've a bunch 

Of the red-beauty rose. 
Which in rank profusion 

In my garden grows; 
Give these to my love. 

Whose face is as fair 
As the rose that perfumes 

The sweet morning air.' 
Then smiling politely. 

When moving away, 
With jestures becoming. 

Turn around and say: 
*I look to the adage, 

A thousand years old. 
That age only brightens 

As if it were gold; 
Stay never too long. 

When making a call. 
And bowing and smiling, 

Depart from the hall. 
And let all your actions 

Be known to the worl', 
A straightforward, upright. 

And dignified squirrel. 
Avoiding the brothel. 

With all of its folly, 



138 A V7histling Farmer 

And the low poison pens 

Of pale pink Polly, 
For these things are stabbing 

Far more than the sword, 
While virtue is yielding 

A glorious reward. 
But, with all due caution, 

There are thousands of things, 
Aside from flowers 

And glittering rings. 
For the most important 

Transaction in life. 
Is holding the love 

Of some noble wife. 
And now, little friend, 

I am off on my way. 
For millions await me 

By night and by day. 
In tragedies many — 

In love, and in birth — 
There are sore, bleeding hearts 

All over the earth. 
From poverty's cot 

To the stations of wealth, 
I enter them ever 

With quiet and stealth. 
And I sow here my seeds 

With an unseen hand. 
And then I'm away 

To some foreign land.' 
Then stroking his brow 

With her soft finger tips. 
And bending way over 

And kissing his lips, 
Said : ' Press on, till the turf 

Is greening your grave, 



A Whistling Farmer 139 

For hope never dies 

In the hearts of the brave!' " 
Then she vanished in space, 

Like a thought that is flown, 
"While her charge still slept 

And slumbered alone. 



PART vn 

Adieu, and forever, 

To all of those things, 
That progress, advancing, 

So endlessly brings. 
And the primeval forest. 

With its vast solitudes, 
And the mysteries of Nature 

Embraced in its woods. 
And the drift of the ages, 

That are passing along. 
Only adding their mite 

To the great endless throng; 
For thousands of workmen 

Have since swept away. 
The deep-tangled woods 

And the squirrels at play, 
"With faith in the future. 

With zeal, and a song. 
The workers are pushing 

The whole world along. 
Way down in the earth. 

While sluggards still sleep. 
Enormous foundations 

Are laid, strong and deep. 
And, where silence once slept 

Among the green trees, 



140 A Whistling Farmer 

And the wildflower tossed 

Its head in the breeze, 
And where the sly hunter 

"Went stalking with stealth, 
There are miles upon miles 

Of splendor and wealth, 
In a great throbbing city 

That stands there to-day, 
On the banks of the river 

In sight of the bay; 
And her ships of commerce. 

With their sails unfurled. 
Arrive and depart for 

The ports of the world. 
There's traffic and trade 

With the warm southern isles, 
And blubber and furs 

From the cold arctic wilds. 
Where many a long 

Daring struggle has won 
On the desolate coasts 

Of the midnight sun; 
Then, laden and sailing, 

And steering for home. 
Triumphant as Cassar 

Returning to Rome. 
And rattle and rumble 

Of trolley and train. 
Through canon and tunnel 

And valley and plains, 
A flash in the darkness. 

E'er leaving behind 
The mine and the mill 

And the great city's grind. 
A glimpse at the country 

Revealing its charms; 



A Whistling Farmer 141 

A call from the quail 

In the brake of the farms; 
The maid with her bucket, 

Just out from the door, 
"With a song in her heart 

Like the meadowlarks pour; 
A melody sweet 

For the day that is done, 
And a tweet! throttle! tweet! 

To the fast-sinking sun. 
Then back to the city 

With her bustling marts 
And her long colonnades 

Of fanciful arts, 
Her vast blocks of granite 

And concrete and steel. 
And the low, drowsy hum 

Of the midnight wheel; 
And driveway, and parkway, 

And vast promenade, 
With fountains and statues 

Of marble arrayed; 
And places of worship. 

And the one sacred name. 
And the eye that gloats 

Upon panels of fame 
In palace and mansion. 

With stone upon stone. 
That rival in splendor 

The ages long gone. 
And, oh! what a leap 

From the old hollow tree. 
Where the squirrels once rambled 

And gamboled in glee, 
To the wonderful strides 

Of the children of men. 



142 A Whistling Farmer 

From the rift in the rock, 

And the low dingy den. 
''Evolution's" the thought, 

Conception and birth, 
From lower to higher 

In the world of worth. 
From hunter and herder, 

And dust of the plains, 
And hamlet and village 

And pioneer trains 
To cities of comfort 

And pleasures and mirth. 
And homes of refinement 

That girdle the earth! 
Time, with thy sickle, 

Thou reapest so fast, 
The forest, the jungle, 

And the fields of mast! 
For the lovers are gone 

From their homes so dear. 
And all are at rest 

In their sepulcher here. 
From their lands of promise, 

And valley and hill, 
"Where age after age 

They were slumbering still. 
And gone, they are gone 

Like the shades of the night, 
From river and rill 

That sparkled so bright. 
Making way for another 

Of glorious birth, 
Instead of some trifle 

That cumbers the earth. 
Untarnished by time. 

Unsullied the plan 



A Whistling Farmer 143 

Conceived by Jehovah 
For the guidance of man. 



HOPE 

If hope is but the end of hope, 
And there be nothing more, 

How pleasant still to grope and grope. 
As all have done before. 

For every hope, it has a charm 

Of pleasures still untold, 
Assuaging much of life's alarm. 

That never can grow old. 

Then, let us still pursue in this, 
That seems of life a part. 

That throws a flood of silent bliss 
Around our every heart. 

And brighter makes the scenes afar, 

Wherever we may roam, 
Until at last we cross the bar, 

Upon our journey home. 



IS THIS THE LAND? 

Is this the land Columbus found, 
And this the very shore. 

Where, to and fro the inlets wound 
Four hundred years before? 



144 A. Whistling Farmer 

Is this the land, this fruitful land, 
Is this the new-found land? 
It is. 

And was it here that praises rang 
Out o'er the boundless sea, 

As when our fathers loudly sang 
The anthems of the free? 

Is this the land? Pray, tell me true: 

Is this that western land? 
It is. 

And was it here that once they stood — 
Around this sacred place — 

And made this village by the wood, 
The cradle of our race? 

Is this the land, this blessed land, 

Is this the promised land? 
It is. 

And was it here, upon this land, 
Wherein a hope was born 

Among some wild untutored band, 
On that October morn? 

This land of faith and hope and trust — 

Is this the land he found ? 
It is. 

And was it this the savage claimed, 
The whole of this wild land. 

That Christianity has tamed. 
And made forever grand? 

It seems so strange — so passing strange- 

That this should be the land! 
It is. 



A Whistling Farmer 145 



THERE'S LIFE IN THE TASSEL 

Celia Christy's Song 

There's one dear thought ever comes to me, 
As sweet as the thyme on the fragrant lea, 
Or the sparkling dews in the early morn, 
When the breeze breaks over the tasseling corn. 
And life, life — it's life in the tassel 

And the fresh 'ning dews in the early morn! 
And life, life — there's life in the tassel. 

It's life in the germs of the tasseling corn! 

And turn where I may in strolling around, 
'er the mountain peaks or the dusty ground. 
Near the slumbering dead in a new-made grave. 
Or tossed by the storms of the ocean wave. 
And life, life — there's life in the tassel 

And the fresh 'ning dews of the early morn ! 
And life, life — there's life in the tassel. 

There 's life in the germs of the tasseling corn ! 

And trust — let us trust after we are gone 
There's something left and it still lives on. 
Encircling the heart that will keep it warm, 
There's something left in a spirit form. 
And life, life — there's life in the tassel 

And the fresh 'ning dews of the early morn ! 
And life, life, there's life in the tassel, 

There 's life in the germs of the tasseling corn ! 



146 A Whistling Farmer 



BOB WHITE 

Bob White, he whistles — beautiful! — 

Upon his post, or rail, 
And loud he calls, as evening falls. 

Unto his mate the quail. 

And in the springtime of the year 
His plaintive suit is pressed, 

And down the way I've heard him say: 
''My dear, it's time to nest." 

And this is done, and neatly done. 

While pleasant days go by, 
In some lone spot or grassy plot, 

Beyond the wheat and rye. 

And while the mother bides her time, 
Through sleepless nights awEike, 

Old Bob, he '11 hide in meadows wide, 
Or stroll beyond the brake. 

Till silence flings her spell aside. 

Then, lo ! some happy morn, 
Where none intrude, you'll find the brood, 

A-chipper 'neath the corn. 

And ere the summer's passed and gone, 

And autumn leaves are gold. 
This growth and worth that fill the earth, 

Is beautifully told. 



A Whistling Farmer 147 

And when the storms of winter come, 

And drifting snows abound, 
With lusty shout old Bob calls out 

To absent ones around. 

And what a wail of warning breaks 

Amid the evening gloam, 
And long it's heard, till every bird 

Is safely in its home. 

And then he strolls around awhile, 

And holds one foot up high, 
And turns his head, as though he said: 

''The night is drawing nigh.*' 

And while he seeks with diligence 
A place that's safe and warm. 

In nooks about, he points one out, — 
A refuge from the storm. 

And loudly now he calls his mate. 

And she falls in behind, 
And, bless the quail if one should fail 

To "dress-parade" in line! 

For Bob, they say, is awful cross, 

And stem as he can be. 
And of each quail, around the trail, 

Demands efficiency. 

And while they tramp in unison, 

If you should like to know, 
Old Bob, I lay, would gruffly say, 

"We're tramping down the snow!" 



148 A Whistling Farmer 

For then it is encircling, 
They move around the trail, 

Until the beak of strong and weak 
Befouls another's tail. 

And when the snow is trampled down, 
They stop, and turn about, 

And, wing to wing, they form a ring. 
With faces turning out. 

And when the long night-vigil starts, 

Upon their circle hard. 
They, all abreast, securely rest. 

And have a perfect guard. 

And thus we see ingenuity 
Outcropping in their plan. 

Nor have I more observed before 
In aught, excepting man. 

And credit here I must bestow — 
And this, I give to Bob, 

And yet from she it's not in me 
That I would seek to rob! 

But Bob, you see, he goes abroad, 
And sees the world more wide. 

Much more than she can ever see — 
Or any other bride. 

And so I give him credit here. 
And loud his praises sing, 

For having wrought — or even thought 
About — a guarded ring. 



A Whistling Farmer 149 

For while they dream the night away, 

This circle forms a shield, 
And there they are, much safer, far. 

Than any beast afield. 

And when this thought first had its birth 

I hesitate to say, 
And yet, I'd rob the present Bob, 

And place him far away. 

On down along the ages gone, 

A million years or more — 
But none can rob that ancient Bob, 

That brought it to the fore. 

For there was once a time, no doubt, 

When circling, it was not, 
But of this dawn, so long it's gone. 

The wisest have forgot. 

And while old Bob now shuts his ej^es, 

And seems content to be. 
From mother bird there comes a word, 

That sounds like twee! twee! twee! 

"And what of you, and you, and you, 

And what of every one. 
And what of play along the way. 

Since first the day begun? 

"And have you found some grains of com, 

The reapers failed to reap. 
And do you feel this ample meal 

AYill bring refreshing sleep?'' 



150 A Whistling Farmer 

And smiling, all around the ring 
Each quaily bows its head, 

''And I and I," they make reply; 
For all are amply fed. 

''And what of you, my daughter, dear? 

And what of you, my son? 
And you and you, and others, too, 

And each and every one? 

"For, see, your dress is all awry, 
And draggled are your feet. 

And all with glee who 'Mother' me, 
Should tidy look, and neat. 

"And so, to all I give command, 
Throughout the circle round, 

And with your bill, exert your skill, 
And smooth your feathers down. 

"For I should be ashamed indeed 

To see you all in bed, 
Until each wing is glistening. 

As smoothly as your head." 

And there she stands and watches long 

Among the shadows deep, 
And o'er and o'er — there comes a snore — 

For Bob is sound asleep. 

And when all this the mother learned, 

God knows; I cannot say; 
And yet this skill she's using still 

Must backward further lay, 



A Whistling Farmer 151 

But when, or where, or why, or how, 

All this is so entwined — 
If you would know, you '11 have to go 

To some far deeper mind. 

And yet, she has her part to play; 

And oft I've seen her strive. 
With ruffled knot, and temper hot, 

To keep these things alive. 

And so it is with all that live: 

They have their place to fiU, 
And equal here they both appear, 

And, doubtless, always will. 

Nor have I aught of patience here, 

For those who seek to rob. 
The mead of good from motherhood, 

And give it all to Bob. 

For God hath wrought a noble work. 

And given each a place, 
'Tis so with bird, and so with herd, 

And so with every race. 

And each of these, they have their sphere, 

That Nature has designed. 
And of all wrought, I know of naught 

That seemeth more refined. 

And Bob still whistles — beautiful! — 

Upon his post or rail, 
And loud he calls, as evening falls, 

Unto his mate the quail. 



152 A Whistling Farmer 



THE STOLEN BABY 

On the marge of a river, in moderate life 

Lived a cotter's family of three 
In youth's sturdy mold, the man and his wife 

And a babe, still feeble and wee. 

And the neighbors were few in those far-away 
lands — 

The home of the cougar and deer, 
And the camp-fire's gleam and the wild savage bands 

Still flaunted their shadows of fear. 

And the season was warm, and the night was close, 

Along by that noiseless shore, 
And the cotters in sight of a desolate coast, 

Were asleep by their wide-open door. 

And the moon rose out of the broad, briny deep, 

And it hazily hung in the air, 
And the nightbirds twittered for sleep, sweet sleep, 

As soft as an infant's prayer. 

For the day had passed with never a cloud. 

As beautiful days often do. 
And they sang some hymns in the evening loud, 

And they mentioned the falling dew. 

But a storm came out of that beautiful sky, 

And torrents of water came down. 
And the river arose, and it rose so high, 

It went dashing along with a bound. 



A Whistling Farmer 153 

And the man and his wife still slumbered above 

The cradled babe on the floor, 
And a horseman, as swift as a message of love, 

Went dashinor alonor bv the shore. 



But the waters had swept all the bridges away, 
In the storms of that terrible night — 

Then a splash and a scream and a horse's wild neigh, 
And both had vanished from sight. 

And far o'er the lowlands the river now swept. 

By valley and meadow and moor, 
But the man and his wife unconsciously slept, 

Near the innocent babe, as before. 

And louder and louder this dangerous flood 

Went dashing along to the sea. 
Like some savage beast that, searching for blood. 

In bounding from tree unto tree. 

And soon this maddening stream had entered the 
house. 

And, spreading all over the floor, 
It had stolen the baby — as sly as a mouse — 

And fled through the wide-open door. 

Yet, in that storm-lashed cradle the baby still slept, 

With never a wailing cry. 
While onward this merciless torrent yet swept. 

Where the ocean wave leaps high. 

And who will dare rescue this frail little bark, 
That the dark swirling waters defy, 



154 A Whistling Farmer 

But, like ]\Ioses of old and Noah and his ark, 
The Master forever is nigh. 

For a maiden had seen in a vision so bright, 

The scene, that is herein portrayed, 
And she hurried along through the storm of the 
night 

And she knelt by the river, and prayed. 

''Asleep in its cradle — and drifting to sea — 

A wee, little baby!" she cried. 
And the Lord saved the baby, now cooing with glee, 

On the crest of the in-sweeping tide. 



MARY GLOVER 

I've a locket 
In my pocket, 
And I rock it 

To and fro, 
And I press it 
And caress it 
And I bless it 

As I go. 

Old and hoary, 
Seems this story 
That's before me 

Here to-night, 
But I greet it 
When I meet it, 
And repeat it 

With delight. 



A Whistling Farmer 155 

'Neath this cover 
Lies my lover, 
And above her 

Is her name, 
"^Vhen I'm nigh her 
My desire 
Leapeth higher, 

Like a flame — 

Leapeth higher, 
Ever higher, 
O'er the mire 

Of the flesh, 
Light as feather. 
Strong as leather, 
Seems this tether 

Of the leash. 

IMary Glover 
^as my lover. 
Ere above her 

Grew the sod. 
Or she left me 
And bereft me, 
For the paradise 

Of God. 

No, she's not dead, 
Because she fled 
Before we wed, — 

Long ago. 
God, the reaper, 
He will keep her 
^Vhile I weep her 

Here below. 



156 A Whistling Farmer 

For I meet her 
Oft, and greet her, 
Growing sweeter 

Through the years; 
And she's nearer 
Now and dearer. 
If not clearer 

She appears. 

And at evening, 
When I'm leaving 
Off my grieving — 

For my bed — 
O'er some sorrow 
That I borrow 
From the morrow, 

Since she's fled: 

I have asked her 
Why her Master 
Should have cast her 

In the tomb, 
Changing gladness 
Into sadness 
Next to madness 

With its gloom. 

But so broken 
Seems the token 
That she's spoken 

To me here, 
That I'm dreary — 
Oft and teary — 
And I weary 

Year by year. 



A Whistling Farmer 157 

God in spirit 
Why not hear it 
When I'm near it, 

Mary dear, 
Am I better, 
As a debtor 
To some fetter, 

Wliile I'm here? 

Can't you shake me, 
Dear, and wake me. 
Can't you make me 

Understand, 
Why its midnight, 
Ere the daylight 
Comes to brighten 

Every land? 

And this locket, 
In my pocket, 
Need I rock it 

Any more — 
Need I press it 
And caress it, 
While I bless it 

O^er and o'er? 

Aye, forever, 
I shall never 
Seek to sever 

Any part, 
Of these tidings 
And confiding 
That are gliding 

Through my heart. 



158 A Whistling Farmer 

Still my lover, 
Mary Glover's 
Still my lover 

True and kind, 
Carnal cravings 
Are but ravings, 
Light as shavings. 

In my mind. 



I STILL MISS THEE 

I STILL miss thee in my rambles, 
And I fail to hear thy voice, 

"Where the songster blithely gambols 
And the scenery is choice; 

Yes, I miss thee, dearest, miss thee, 
When the eve is growing late. 

In the moonlight where I kissed thee 
By thy little garden gate. 

Where the trees hang o'er the river, 
And the current's swift and strong, 

There'll be memories forever 
That will all around me throng: 

In the nighttime, ere I slumber. 
At the breaking of the day, — 

Scenes of pleasure without number 
That can never pass away. 

Other arms may clasp me tightly. 
Other tears may flow with mine. 

But no other can delight me 
With a spirit so divine. 



A Whistling Farmer 159 

As that one bright angel yonder, 

On the sloping of the hill, 
Where I often, musing, wander 

In the summer evenings still. 



TIRED OUT 

And why should one 
Sit here and write? 

It won't be long 
Till all is lost 
In that long night 

That holds the throng. 

And monuments 
Of granite rock. 

And chiseled name — 
Can such as these 
Delay or block 

A waning fame? 

No, no, indeed! 
For time will come 

And fling her pall 
O'er this huge stone 
And make it dumb. 

And scattered all. 

And names in books, 
And, what are they? 

They last a spell. 
Alas, for those 
"Who pass away I 

If they could tell ! 



i6o A Whistling Farmer 

Nor names, nor books, 
Nor monuments 

Can ever stay 
This blighting hand 
That God hath sent, 

To wield decay. 

Commingling all 
In one vast heap, 

We choose our lot; 
And here we lay 
Us down to sleep — 

And be forgot. 



THE BENT OF ALL THINGS 

When undisturbed by man, 
Or foiled of its desire 
In all that may exist, 
Like gravitates to like. 
And so, the grass grows on 
Among its fellows green. 
And feels a pride, maybe, 
The same as you and I. 
And thus with every life 
That time shall ever know : 
The beast will seek the beast. 
And birds call back aloud 
To other birds again — 
An image of themselves. 
And so this law lays hold 
On every creature born. 
And throws its charms around 
The wayward feet of all. 



A Whistling Farmer i6i 

And lurking in its lair, 
As might a beast of prey, 
It drives the savage on 
To be a savage still. 
And mingle with his own. 
And if a doubt may be 
Existing in your mind. 
Go hide yourself a while 
Within the jungle deep, 
And list to every cry 
That breaks the silence there. 



MY COUNTRY 

Heart of my heart, soul of my soul, 

My country is to me, 
IVe seen her destiny unfold 

In matchless majesty, 
The while she helps the fallen rise 

And chimes along the sea. 
In a struggle for humanity 
That's marching on and on. 

And let them weigh us, if they will, 

And scrutinize our plan 
That stamps upon the lowest brow 

The Brotherhood of Man. 
And this is but the early spring — 

Our harvest will be grand ! — 
In this struggle for humanity 
That's marching on and on. 

And so we hail, with ecstasy, 
The morning, with its light, 



1 62 A Whistling Farmer 

And dare this venom of distrust 
That's hidden in the night; 

And vow to live, and vow to die, 
In cherishing the right. 

In this struggle for humanity 

That's marching on and on. 



GOODNESS 

When goodness overflows the heart 
The face bespeaks the inner flood. 

And tunes to rapture, every part, 
Angelic-like, with tingling blood. 



THE COLTOIBIA RIVER 

There's a grand old river, — 
The Columbia River, 
That's laughing and smiling 

In evident glee, 
While here it is gliding 
And there it is tiding, 
Some ponderous vessel 

On down to the sea. 

And over this river, — 

This broad brimming river, — 

Where hope ever lurks 

In the floods of the stream, 
At evening and morning 
There's never a warning 
That comes over one 

Like the flash of a dream. 



A Whistling Farmer 163 

And mild is the river, — 
This peace-loving river, 
Resembling an emblem 

Of heaven above, — 
Where lovers go boating. 
And leisurely floating, 
And music, sweet music, 

Is mingled with love. 

Enchanting, this river, — 
This classical river, 
AYith village and hamlet 

And cities between. 
And wonderful climate 
Forever entwines it 
With vineyards and orchards 

And meadows of green. 

And this is our river, — 
Our own sacred river, — 
But vessels may enter 

From countries afar, 
When empty or laden, 
To traffic and trade in 
The various nations 

Outside of her bar. 

beautiful river! — 

Thou great Western river, — 

As dear to our hearts 

As the sweetest of flowers ! 
Then go 3^e, and meet her, 
And sail her and greet her. 
And romp with your children 

Among her green bowers. 



164 A Whistling Farmer 



EXECUTION 

It's simply rot, to plan and plot, 

And never execute; 
The thing for you and me to do, 

Is go right off and do't. 

The finest plan conceived by man 

Is but an airy mite, 
Unless the thing is on the wing, — 

A-flutter in its flight. 



I AM A WOMAN STILL 

I AM a woman still, 
For yet I hold me true 
To God's eternal law. 
And looking unto this, 
I see a star of hope 
Within the future hid; 
And thitherward I turn 
With gladness in my heart. 
And while I note the drift 
That all around me lies, 
Unmoved, I bide my time. 
And hope to find in this 
That golden afternoon 
Of blessed motherhood. 
Unlike my sisters here, 
That fret their lives away 
In some secluded room, 



A Whistling Farmer 165 

This prattling babe of mine 

Will ever be to me 

An inspiration strong 

In my declining years. 

And why? My God hath come 

And walked along with me, 

And pointed out the ways 

And measure of my life. 

The way that He designed, — 

The ways of happiness, — 

And unto these I bow 

In mute submission down, 

Remaining ever true 

To His unchanging law. 

For in His kingdom wrought 

I am the tender vine. 

And He, my stronger self, 

He is the sturdy oak; 

And so I look to him, 

And leave to other hands 

The destiny of State. 



THEY MET NO MORE 

They met and loved as lovers do 

When heart responds to heart. 
Until at last the wave went past, 
. And then they drew apart. 

The man was pleased beyond degree, 

The lady never cried, 
When, bowing low, they turned to go 

To countries far and wide. 



1 66 A Whistling Farmer 

The autumns came and cast the leaf, 

The years wove out and in, 
But this sweet thought the Lord had brought 

Was never found again. 

They roved afar in distant lands, 

Attaining wealth and fame, 
But ever still the eye would fill 

At mention of a name. 

Their steps sped not so swiftly now — 
The two were growing old — 

Yet still that face, and form and grace 
Before them ever strolled. 

'*And what is life?" they often asked; 

A fickle thing, a breath ! ' ' 
Outwailing, — he, as well as she, — 

Until they slept in death. 



LIFE 

When stripped of all its fallacies 
That modern follies bring, 

You'll find in sweet realities, 
Life's but a simple thing: 

A glowing heart, a smiling face, 

And tears for all distress. 

And winsome ways, that leave a trace 
Of lasting happiness. 



A Whistling Farmer 167 



FRIENDSHIP 

Should early friendship still prevail? 
Old age alone can tell the tale; 
For what the future still may hold 
No mortal yet has ever told. 
So, on your conduct much depends, 
How long in life you hold your friends; 
For this still wields a mighty sword 
That all the ages have adored; 
And wisdom bows before it oft 
And bears its laurels high aloft. 
So conduct, more than aught I know, 
Should be the aim of high and low. 
For this is where the secret lies 
That grows with time and never dies. 
Aside from this, who wins to-day. 
To-morrow brings a swift decay, 
O'erwhelming all, and all is lost. 
Amid the storm and tempest tossed. 
And of two friends, beware the loud. 
And watch the gentler hold the crowd. 
And this as well you doubtless know 
And see it oft where'er you go; 
The saddest, sweetest news e'er broke 
Is always in a whisper spoke; 
And should some loved one pout awhile, 
Be slow to wrath and quick to smile, 
For one sweet smile and graceful bow 
Has often quelled a brewing row, 
And held some friend secure and fast, 
A heritage while life may last. 
And thus it is, in books of old. 
The writers oft these things have told 



1 68 A Whistling Farmer 

With empliasis, and bated breath, 
That left an imprint after death. 

So on your conduct much depends, 
How long in life you hold your friends, 
For should attachment still prevail 
Old age alone can tell the tale. 



THESE THREE 

There is a place more dear to me 

Than all the gladsome morn, — 
A place that lies along the sea, 

Where liberty was born. 
And how all this comes back again 

And magic speeches fall, 
From giant intellects within 

That Philadelphia hall. 
And while the bell tolls out the hour, — 

All solemnly, and long, 
For men of might, and men of power, 

That dare oppose the wrong, — 
Those fearless ones, I see them now. 

As each one takes his place. 
And calmly, too, they take that vow, — 

A credit to our race. 
And louder now, — ^the bell again, — 

Its tolling seems to fall. 
And far without, and deep within 

That Philadelphia hall. 
'Twas war ! At first our cause looked blue,- 

The strongest heart might chill, — 
But, pshaw! we knew a thing or two. 

The slopes of Bunker Hill! 



A Whistling Farmer 169 

But winter was upon us now, 

And we were weak and poor, 
And trouble showed upon our brow, 

With wolves around the door. 
And Valley Forge, so dark she lay, 

She smiling set the king, 
Till George, you know, went out to pray, — 

And golly! what a spring! 



THE BATTLE OF BUNKER HILL 

There was darkness o'er the ocean, 
And the night was hot and still, 

When a fleet in Boston harbor 
Lay in sight of Bunker Hill, 

But the British slept so soundly 
In their camps along the sea. 

Not dreaming of a vigilance 
That's born of liberty. 

For this noble Declaration now 

Had fired all the land, 
And the grandest page in history 

Was drawing close to hand. 

And while their sentries called the hours, 
Through that short, sultry night. 

We were throwing up entrenchments 
On a promontory's height. 

And we planted there our cannon 
In the midnight hours still. 

And everj^ man had pledged his life 
To die for Bunker Hill. 



1 70 A Whistling Farmer 

And now, the time had flown so fast, 
And Venus rose so Mgh, 

A mellow fringe of orange showed 
Along the eastern sky. 

And while the stars yet dimmer grew. 
And darkness stole away, 

Around the armies broke at last 
The dawning of the day. 

And farewell to the babies 
And the wives of many tears. 

And a hurried note to mother 
By the youths of tender years; 

And the sun had kissed the ocean. 
And the fields of waving corn, 

And sent congratulations to 
A nation yet unborn. 

And when the fogs had lifted. 
And the mists had blown away. 

There arose a mighty tumult. 
From the British in the bay. 

For they saw our forts a-building, 
And the glitter of the gun, 

And their anger kept on rising 
Like the rising of the sun. 

And now the battle opened 
With the early morning light, 

And Boston woke from slumbering. 
But not from sudden fright. 



A Whistling Farmer 171 

For our men continued laboring 

Among the shot and shell, 
With an ardor, and devotion, too, 

That few have done so well. 

Then silence swept across the bay, 

And hope revived again, 
In all save those who, on their steeds, 

Had fled their fields of grain, 

As messengers, to spread the news 
Through all the friendly land. 

And ask assistance for their friends. 
With Prescott, and his band. 

And while excitement grew apace. 

The morning went so soon. 
The sun had reached his zenith, 

And the hour hand was noon. 

And Howe had gone from Boston long 

To land upon our shore, 
And many who had gone with him 

Would meet and part no more. 

And they've landed, and they're forming, 
And they're marching up the hill, 

With an armament of splendor. 
Flashing in the evening still. 

And they're firing from their vessels 
And their army on the shore, — 

Such a storm of awful tumult 
Boston never saw before. 



172 A Whistling Farmer 

But, while marching, coolly marching, 
Proudly marching up the hill, 

There's a silence in our fortress, 
That is surely boding ill. 

' ' How much nearer ? ' ' plead our soldiers, 
As they draw a deadly aim, 

''How much nearer?" god of battles. 
What a slaughter, what a shame ! 

And they've reached that fatal distance. 
See the white within the eye, 

And a storm of fire greets them 
When our fortress makes reply; 

And we 've checked them, and they 're beaten. 
And they 're flying from the scene. 

And they've left a host behind them, 
Dead, or dying, on the green. 

In confusion, down the hillslope. 
To their landing on the shore. 

O'er a field of wide destruction, 
Boston never saw before. 

But they 're forming, and they 're marching. 
Faintly marching up the hill. 

With their army badly shattered, 
In the sultry evening still. 

And they 're sullen, with their madness, 
And they'll stagger from the blow, 

For our army's calmly waiting. 
Like a tigress crouching low. 



A Whistling Farmer 173 

Again, tlie crash and shock of battle, 
Sweeps along our peaceful shore, 

On the land, and on the ocean, 
They come firing as before; 

But again : ' ' Our point of vantage ! ' * 
Hear our valiant Prescott cry. 

As a crash of frightful carnage 
From our fortress makes reply. 

See them falter, see them quailing, 
See them flying from the scene, 

Another host is left behind them. 
Dead, or dying, on the green. 

''Powder, powder!" cry our soldiers. 

''Will assistance never come? 
Seest thou some flying squadron? 

Hearest thou some friendly drum?" 

And while they battle for their country — 

And it's noble thus to die, 
Two hundred British cannon now 

i\Iake ready to reply. 

Marching, marching, sadly marching, 

Madly marching up the hill, 
Tom, and bleeding, and protesting, 

In the evening later still. 

Again they're firing from their vessels, — 

Not their army on the shore, 
But the bayonet that glistens 

Greets the cannons' steady roar. 



174 A. Whistling Farmer 

And they've reached our thirty paces, 
But you know the reason why, — 

Why the fury of our fortress 
Was so weakened in reply. 

And while we failed to check them here. 
And to hurl them from the scene. 

Another host of silent forms 
Lay bleeding on the green. 

Noble soldiers, noble generals. 

Noble cause, for which they fought ! 

my country, looking backward. 
What a century hath wrought! 

To our army and its leaders, 
In those midnight hours still. 

And their bravery, and devotion 
In the battle on the hill, — 

Behold yon sacred monument, 
As it towers to its height, 

With its beacon ever burning, — 
Ever burning for the right. 

Throwing out a bright reflection, 
To the world in darkness still, 

Dedicated, with affection. 

To our dead at Bunker Hill. 



MEANNESS SHOWS 

And what of thee, thou imp of earth, 
That parents dared to give thee birth? 
What wanton, craven beast was she. 
And foul designing monster he. 



A Whistling Farmer 175 

To plant such seed, and hail its growth, 
That decency should damn you both. 
And go thy way, thou offspring, go, — 
Go weeping on, that all may know 
Thy cruelties and hateful spite 
Are but reflections of that night 
AVhen every thought, and every deed. 
Found pleasure most in hearts that bleed ! 
Uncouth in form, and face, and look, 
How dare you gaze upon the brook^ 
Or seek the glass, and ramble o'er 
This horrid thing, you stand before ? 
For these things tell, without and in, 
Unerring, as the cock the wind. 
And lays life's story wholly bare 
In words, all plainly written there. 
These grooves that mar thy features deep, 
Why grow they still, awake or sleep ? 
Aye, these are records, ever^^ one. 
As like the notches on the gun. 
And what a string of them, I see. 
And still they grow, continually. 
And this one here that gaps apart, 
This, doubtless, broke some trusting heart. 
And threw a cloud before its sun, 
E 're life had scarcely yet begun. 
So deep it is, and wide, and strong. 
It tells a story of some wrong, 
No moralist, nor they who preach, 
Nor prison bars, can ever reach. 
And this one, too. less wide and deep. 
Has doubtless caused some one to weep. 
And left its notch upon the gun 
As plainly as the other one; 
And so each face that's marred and lined 
Does but reflect the inner mind. 



176 A Whistling Farmer 



THE LAWS THAT ARE 

What made this vale so sweet and fair ; 
And rounded off the hilltop there; 
And sprinkled o'er this fairy scene 
And endless carpeting of green; 
And painted white the peaks with snow, 
And made the dashing streams below? 
Why, it was but the laws, my child, — 
The ever never-ending laws. 

For law it was that caused the birth 
Of all we see upon the earth; 
And flung the seeds o'er every plain, — 
The seeds of fruit, and seeds of grain; 
And brought to life each living thing. 
From master man to mites that wing. 
And law as well that flung afar 
The endless fields of every star ; 
And grandly made them, every one. 
And made the moon, and made the sun ; 
And swung them out in endless space ; 
And ever holds them in their place. 
And every greening blade of grass. 
And every atom that we pass. 
And every leaf, and every straw, — 
All these are but results of law. 
And so it is, from age to age. 
We write this down on every page. 
It's but the laws that are, my child, — 
The ever never-ending laws. 



A Whistling Farmer 177 

And while some few may try to sway 
This never-ending mystery, 
We find it still, howe'er it came, 
Remaining ever still the same. 



THE NIGHTINGALE 

I HAIL thee, thou wizard, 
When June flings her banner, 
Aflash to the breeze 

In the grand summertime, 
While others are snoring, 
Thy melody's pouring 
Out over the forest, 

A lullaby's chime. 
Soft piercing the darkness. 
That wonderful cadence, 
Down deep in the valley 

Alone I can hear, 
Thy spritely outpourings, 
I'm ever adoring, 
And long for thy flutings 

When evening is near. 
Not thou, to the mountains 
That dim in the distance. 
But rather the shadows 

Along by the vale, 
Thou piper of evening, 
Thy twitter is leaving, 
The thought of another, 

My sweet nightingale. 
And that's why I hail thee. 
When June flings her banner 
Aflash to the breeze 

In the grand summertime. 



178 A Whistling Farmer 

When others are snoring 
Thy melody's pouring 
Out over the forest, — 
A lullaby's chime. 



THE SPIRIT 

Ever, like the voice of a siren, 

So musical and sweet, 

Or the distant pipings 

Of some dirge-like requiem, 

thou enchantress. 

Thou babbling babe of time. 

Thou child of the eternal! 

In the morning of birth, 

The noontide of life. 

Or the evening of death 

Thou art ever present. 

And, above the rush and madness 

Of a distracted world. 

We feel the touch 

Of an unseen hand, 

And hear thy gentle voice 

That ever calls aloud: 

' ' Oh, come, thou wand 'ring one, — 

Oh, come thou unto me ! ' ' 

And ever, aye, forever, 

With thy magic wand, — 

Or the effulgent rays 

Of the noonday sun 

That floods the earth 

In a halo of glory, — 

Thou sowest the seeds 

Of bread and flowers, 



A Whistling Farmer 179 

And flinging thy mantle 
Of green around the whole world, 
Thou entwinest thy loving tendrils 
About the heartstrings of men, 
And makest of the crude earth 
A habitation and a home. 



THE GODDESS OF LIBERTY 

Have you heard about our woman, 
She's no mortal, she's no human. 
Yet she is the grandest of all women 

Ever born along the sea. 
Just a word about this woman, 
Neither mortal, neither human, 
The pride of all our country 

And the emblem of the free. 
Descendant of a noble race, 

And pure and sturdy stock, 
But prouder of a heritage 

Around the Plymouth Rock. 
And she it was who waved that brand 

When Columbus saw the light. 
Guardian angel of the new-found land, 

And queen of the starry night. 
And she who urged our fathers on. 

With motherly devotion, 
The night they struck against the wrong 

And made tea in the ocean. 
And she was there at Faneuil Hall, 

With balance-scales a-poise. 
Weighing out justice to one and all 

'Midst that historic noise. 
And she was with Jones at Whitehaven, 



i8o A Whistling Farmer 

She led him 'long the coast, 

And she was with Perry 

At the battle of Lake Erie, 
When the British ships were lost. 
And she was in love with Jefferson, 

She laid a wreath on his grave, 
And she adores still to-day 

The noble and the brave. 
And she touched the heart of Paul Revere, 

She knew the day, the hour, 
And she it was that led the way 

To light the Old Church tower. 
She wept for joy at our Yorktown, 

And when the deed was done, 
A halo of glory shone around 

The name of "Washington. 
She kissed the brow of Nathan Hale, 

With a woman's prodigality, 
And she left there the stamp that will never 
fail. 

The stamp of immortality. 



thou storm-lashed and blood-splashed em- 
blem of justice, 

Ever leading thy children by land and sea, 
Where flying shot and bursting shell, 
And quiv'ring flesh their story tell, 
'Mid clashing arms, and waves that swell 
And reel and fall, and last farewell. 
And pools of blood where some one fell. 

Fell in the cause of freedom! 

And what we've done, we'll do again. 

To help the cause of freedom win, 

And far from home I hear the din — 

We're marching on to victory! 



A Whistling Farmer i8i 



CROSSING THE DELAWARE 

'TwAS Christmas night in seventy-six, 

And frosty was the air, 
But Washington had laid his plans 

To cross the Delaware, 
All night, they strove among the ice, 

With naught to keep them warm, 
And when they landed in the morn. 

Enveloped in the storm. 
Few scenes we find in war's alarm. 

Of bravery, more rare. 
For many a noble-hearted youth 

Had crossed the Delaware, 
The dangerous Delaware, 

The icy Delaware, 
For many a noble-hearted youth 

Had crossed the Delaware. 

And marching down to Trenton town, 

Their enemies to snare, — 
This fearless band of patriots. 

That crossed the Delaware, — 
And while the sluggish Hessian lay 

A-toying with his dream. 
No noisy sound of drum was heard 

To echo down the stream, — 
As silent as that starry host. 

Whose endless fields expand, — 
But every man had come to fight 

For home and native land: 
The freedom of his land. 

The honor of his land! 



1 82 A Whistling Farmer 

But every man had come to fight, 
For home and native land. 

When duty calls where danger lurks, 

The bravest and the fair. 
Are always ready with a heart. 

To cross some Delaware. 
A swift surprise and capture quick. 

And thus the deed was done, 
And o'er the field of battle rang 

The name of Washington. 
And now a thousand men we bore 

As prisoners away. 
And only four we left behind, 

Upon that winter day, — 
That brilliant winter day. 

That stormy winter day; 
And only four we left behind 

Upon that winter day. 

Ee turning now along the stream. 

With ample time to spare. 
They waved a token to their friends, 

Beyond the Delaware. 
And ere the sun had sunk to rest, 

Or flashed a single gleam, 
We find this band of fearless men 

Eeturning up the stream. 
And while their bands of music played 

Some pieces, rich and rare, 
They marched back to their boats again. 

And crossed the Delaware, — 
The noted Delaware, 

The classic Delaware; 
They marched back to their boats again, 

And crossed the Delaware. 



A Whistling Farmer 183 



THE INTENT IS ALL 

If I be true in all my thought, 

If I be ever true, 
I need not fear what I have wrought, 

Whatever I may do. 

For God perceives in my design. 

The whole of my desire, 
Just as he sees this heart of mine 

A-flounder in the mire. 

And so my honor bears me on, 

My honesty beside, 
And so it will until I'm gone, 

Whatever may betide. 

For justice is my only thought. 

And this, I still pursue, 
And seek for kindness, as I ought, 

In everything I do. 

And when my own are housed and clad. 
And comfort claims the day, 

I may not stop because I'm glad. 
And fritter life away; 

My God hath called, and I must go, 

And labor with a will. 
For He demands this much, I know. 

Of all his creatures still. 



184 A Whistling Farmer 

And so my days and nights abound 
In constant usefulness, 

And well I know, if I be crowned, 
I can do nothing less. 



THE BETTER LIFE 

About all that we need 
In this world of ours. 

In clearing the shoals of strife, 
Is a loaf of bread, 
And a bunch of flowers, 

And the love of a noble wife ; 

And a plain old home, 
And plenty of room. 

And garments of cotton or wool ; 
And a garden back, 
Where the flowers can bloom. 

And a heart that is always full ; 

And a few dear friends, — 
And only a few. 

For numbers are always a care, — 
And these should be 
Congenial and true. 

And free as the wide open air. 

And a baby or two. 
To strengthen the tie, 

And to gladden the glowing dawn, 
And to bathe our brow 
When death is nigh. 

And remember us when we're gone. 



A Whistling Farmer 185 

And then, for the sick, 
And those who are aged, 

We should do whatever we can, 
In alertness ever 
Kesponding quick, 

To the needs of our fellow-man. 



THE MATTERHORN 

Ghostlike in the tranquil evening, 
Triumphantly greeting the morn, 

As when thy clouds are leaving 
The tip of the Matterhorn, 
The glistening Matterhorn, 
The ponderous Matterhorn, — 

As when thy clouds are leaving 
The tip of the Matterhorn. 

Aglow in thy pristine beauty, 
Remaining forever sublime, 

Thou soldier of trust and duty. 
Thou sentinel rock of Time, 
Thou gladdening rock of Time, 
Thou wonderful rock of Time, — 

A soldier of trust and duty, 
Thou sentinel rock of Time. 

Surviving the countless ages. 
And scoffing the world to scorn. 

Thou prince of the mountain sages, 
The tip of the Matterhorn, 
The mystical Matterhorn, 
The beautiful Matterhorn, — 

Thou prince of the mountain sages, 
The tip of the Matterhorn. 



1 86 A Whistling Farmer 



THE WITCHES OF SALEM TOWN 

Some witches once, — tlie story runs, — 

Who lived in Salem town, 
They spread their witchery abroad 

In all the lands around ; 
And made the cows give bloody milk, 

By practicing their spells, 
And brought about a world of woes 

By drying up the wells; 
And filled the land with awful plagues, 

Of every known degree. 
And then, we 're told, they sought to hide 

This cunning infamy. 
And while the witches further spread 

Their maladies around. 
In sore distress, the records say. 

The folk of Salem town. 
Led on by Cotton Mather now. 

Sought out these grannies gray, 
And charged them with a host of crimes 

And led them all away, 
To face, perchance, an awful charge. 

Preferred against the witch, — 
Or were she one of poverty, 

Or one among the rich, — 
Yes, led them off as prisoners. 

And often made them tell 
Of things that were impossible, — 

And, now we know it well. 
And judges sat on every case. 

And oft it was they found, 
So much of proof against the witch. 

In court at Salem town, 



A Whistling Farmer 187 

That she was led away to die 

Among the faggots' blaze, 
While ' ' Hallelujahs ! ' ' rent the air 

In early Salem days. 
But were they here, who'd say to-day, 

They set the town afire, — 
Those innocents of other times, 

That Salem's loth to sire? 
And, Lord, we pray they may return 

To every town on earth, 
That they may bear aloft a torch 

Of common sense and worth; 
That all may see how ignorance 

Has swept the world around. 
Not only here, but everywhere, — 

As well as Salem town. 



THE WAYS OF GOD 

What prospects flash before pure youth ! 

What dreams we have from day to day, 
Till age comes by and tells the truth, — 

Poor feeble age, that's found decay. 
But what is truth when life is gone. 

And deeper grows the evening gloam, 
And cold and swift the night comes on 

And calls us back to home, sweet home ? 
To clods that lie beneath our feet. 

And rivers wide and boundless sea. 
For o'er and o'er all these repeat, 

''Come back to me ! Come back to me ! 
Come back, ye aged and feeble ones; 

And come, man of strength and pride. 
And you, my daughters and my sons, 

Come back to greet the flowing tide. 



i88 A Whistling Farmer 

And come, ye infants still at breast, 

Come back to sleep beneath the sod, 
And mingle with the dust and rest. 

Along the way that leads to God, — 
The ways of all that breathe and live : 

The birth, the growth, the ripened grain, 
Come back," he cries, ''and freely give 

These gladsome pleasures back again ! ' ' 



A BAD EXCHANGE 

If I were you, 

And you were me. 
How different 

We two would be. 
For I'd be fat. 

And you'd be lean. 
And you'd be good. 

And I'd be mean. 
And I'd be short, 

And you'd be long, 
And I'd be weak, 

And you'd be strong. 
And you'd be rich, 

And I'd be poor. 
But poverty 

Is such a bore! 
Let's stay just where 

We are, old man. 
And try and do 

The best we can. 
For you'd be great, 

And I'd be small. 
And j^ou'd be out 

If I should call. 



A Whistling Farmer 189 

And you'd be swift, 

And I'd be slow, 
And then, we 'd drift 

Apart, yoTi know. 
And I'd wear rags 

And beg my bread, 
And you 'd drive by 

Nor turn your head. 
And leave me here 

Upon the road, 
To struggle on 

Beneath my load. 
And I should fret 

And you'd be glad. 
And this would make 

Me glum and sad. 
For I'd be spurned. 

And you'd be blessed. 
And you'd be gay. 

And I distressed, 
And I'd be shunned. 

And you'd be sought, 
And I'd be jailed, 

And you would not. 
And I'd be tried 

In open court. 
And you 'd sit by 

And jolly o'er't, 
And go and swear 

Upon the stand, 
That I had been 

An awful man 
My whole life long. 

The same as now. 
Since once I stole 

My neighbor's cow. 



I go A Whistling Farmer 

And you'd be kissed 

By ladies, sure, 
And I'd be hissed 

From every door. 
And all my friends 

"Would be disgraced, 
And all your crimes 

Would be erased. 
And I'd be left. 

And you they'd call, 
And you'd be it 

At every ball. 
And you'd be proud, 

And drink your wine. 
And that would break 

This heart of mine. 
And you'd be hailed 

All o'er the land. 
And I'd be scoffed 

On every hand. 
And I'd be old, 

And you'd be young, 
And you'd go free. 

And I'd be hung. 
Because I stole 

My neighbor's cow. 
That's feeding on 

The common now. 



THE GRANITE SPRING 

Come to the granite spring, May, 
Come to the granite spring, 

Come when the songsters sing, May, 
Come when the songsters sing! 



A Whistling Farmer igi 

Come with your simple truth, May, 

Come with your simple truth, 
Gome in your glowing youth. May, 

Come in your glowing youth. 
And ere the sun has sunk, May, 

And ere the sun has sunk, 
Come to the shelving bank. May, 

Come to the shelving bank. 

But, oh, the years went by. 
And the spring went dry. 

And the rustic seat in the shade. 
Like the one who trod 
On that winding trail. 

At last in the dust was laid. 



I LOVE 

I LOVE the summer's glow 
And the winter's snow. 
And the sleigher's shout 

And the tinkling bell; 
And the music sweet. 
And the flying feet, 
And the one dear pledge 

That is treasured well; 

And the plan that's laid, 
And the vow that's made. 
And the hope that brightens 

The future's mist; 
And the noble twain 
That ever remain 
The same as the day 

They plighted their tryst; 



192 A Whistling Farmer 

And tlie fruitful tree, 
And the children's glee, 
That gladdens the glow 

Of the evening hearth; 
And the songs they sing. 
And the joys they bring 
As we near the brink 

Of the cold, damp earth. 

And I love the plot 
By the ruined cot. 
And a cooling draught 

From grandfather's spring; 
Where the ferns grow wild. 
And the tulips smile 
And the songsters flit 

On hurrying wing; 

And the sounds of spring, 
And the woodland's ring, 
And the plowman's song 

In the distant field; 
And the cloudy cloak 
Of the curling smoke. 
And the horn that's wound 

For the noonday meal; 

And the breeze that blows. 
And the stream that flows. 
And the brook that murmurs 

Its gurgling tune; 
And the man that tries, 
And the maid that sighs 
For a mild, clear day 

In the coming June; 



A Whistling Farmer 193 

And the dews that fall, 
And the frosty sprawl 
That looks like the work 

Of a mj^stic hand; 
And the tranquil night, 
And the dawning light 
That comes like a blessing 

That some one 's planned ; 

And the lark that soars, 
And the storm that roars 
A warning to all 

O'er the oceans wide; 
And the tide that turns, 
And the moon that yearns 
For the life once more 

Of a youthful bride. 

And the blood-red Mars, 
And the twinkling stars, 
And the hazv maze 

Of the Milky Way; 
And the rainbow's hue 
And the azure blue, 
That, deeper and darker, 

Beyond us lay; 

And the pith and pride 
Of the landscape wide. 
And the cloudlike curtain 

That's hung so high; 
And the gladsome play 
Of the breaking day, 
And the crimson flush 

Of the evening sky; 



194 A Whistling Farmer 

And the forest deep, 
And tlie valley's sweep, 
And the flowers that gladden 

The lonely trail; 
And the maiden's await 
By her swinging gate 
For one who was lost 

In the offing sail. 



A HOPELESS BACHELOR 

'And tell me now, ye moaning winds, 

That round my dwelling rave. 
Is there no place on all the earth 

Where man may quiet have, — 
No cavern underground for him. 

Or howling wilderness. 
Where woman never comes along 

To mar his happiness?" 
And, then, just like a raging storm, 

I heard the wind reply: 
* ' In all my travels 'round the earth, — 

Not I, my friend, not I." 
Likewise, a chorus seemed to break 

The silence, far and near. 
From everything possessing life: 

''Nor here, nor here, nor here." 
The valleys joined the distant hills. 

The insect, with its chant. 
Poured forth denials all day long: 

"We can't, we can't, we can't." 
And all that breathe, and all that know,— 

A voice from everything. 
And great and small, and high and low, 

And man, and fin, and wing. 



A Whistling Farmer 195 



HOMESICK 

I've traveled much, and yet, — alack !- 

Wherever I may roam, 
In fancy still I wander back 

Around my youthful home. 
Although its site was cold and drear, 

And stony lay the lea. 
Forever still it seemeth dear 

And sacred unto me. 



THE BABE IN THE TREE 

And where are you going, 

My dear little man. 
Away down the road now 

As fast as you can? 
And day after day 

Along where you've toed, 
I find a wee track 

In the dust of the road. 

"Yes, I hurry along 

Just as fast as I can. 
When I go down the road, sir, 

To visit Aunt Han. 
You know where she lives, sir, 

Down over the hill, 
And she sleeps every night 

With my old Uncle Bill. 
And both are as funny 

As funny can be, 



196 A Whistling Farmer 

'Cause they found a wee babe 

In an old hollow tree. 
So I go every day 

To their home o'er the hill 
'Cause I love my Aunt Han 

And my old Uncle Bill. 
And Auntie, she told of 

This tree, far away, 
And I went out to hunt, 

And I hunted all day, 
And I found it at last, 

AYith a hole near the ground, 
But some old rotten wood, sir. 

Was all that I found. 
And I told them of this, 

And they both laughed at me. 
And they said there is more 

In the old hollow tree." 



BED BUGS 

''Come on there, you fellows! 

The man's fast asleep. 
Come on! Don't you hear me, 

I just took a peep. 
And slyly, I warn you. 

As onward you creep. 
And we'll all have a feast 
On his carcass." 

Then out from the drawers, 

Majestic and tall. 
And out from each crevice 

And crack in the wall, 



A Whistling Farmer 197 

The bugs all responded, 

The great and the small, 
Aflush with delight 
At the prospect. 

Resembling an army, 

Advancing, they came. 
The old and the young now. 

The halt and the lame; 
For vantage is vantage 

In life's rugged game, 
With darkness, and slumber 
Assisting. 

And now, from the vanguard. 

As onward it flows: 
'^Ye gods ain't he luscious!" 

Says one on his nose, 
While others approve it, 

At work on his toes, — 
When bugs are a-plenty 
All summer. 

But hark you! it seems there's 

A skip in his snore, 
"Let's quiet a moment 

And let him roll o'er." 
But all of a sudden 

He utters a roar, 
And flounces, and bounces 
And tumbles. 

And "Thunder and blazes! 

What's that at my feet?" 
And slam go the covers. 

Exposing the sheet, 



igS A Whistling Farmer 

But never a vermin 

Is found in retreat, 
For all have escaped 
In the darkness. 

And now on his belly, 
And now on his back, 

He thinks, — surely thinks, — 
He has found something black, 

And, gritting his teeth hard. 
He gives it a crack. 

But nothing is ever 
Discovered. 

Then raging, distracted. 
He springs for his light, 

And flooding his room 
In the hush of the night, 

He damns all creation 
With all of his might, 

'Cause bugs are a-plenty. 
All summer. 



THE HIDDEN GOAL 

When evening comes, none should forget 

That other suns have often set ; 

And from the past, it seemeth plain, 

This very sun will rise again. 

And since, with ease, these things are done. 

From day to day, and sun to sun, 

May there not be some light ahead? 

A light to rouse the slumb 'ring dead. 



A Whistling Farmer 199 

And rend in twain this awful gloom, 

And tear asunder every tomb, 

And say to each : ' ' Arise, my friend ! 

This death, that once you thought the end, 

Was but a nap, — a short repose. 

For man to guess, and God, who knows? 

Arise, I say, and break this bond, 

And smile at all that lies beyond. 

For this is far too deep for you 

To fathom God's eternal blue, 

Or learn, as yet, the reasons why 

He has decreed all flesh must die. 

But this should not disturb your dream. 

And why? Behold this placid stream 

That comes to rest amid the sea, 

But not for all eternity. 

For yet, in time, that which has been 

Will all return and be again. 

And of this grave, that opens wide, 

Man's like the stream that seeks the tide, — 

A stream, that's ever flowing on, 

And yet a stream that's never gone. 



THE STORM 

A DROP of rain fell down and down, 

A thing of passing worth. 
Until at last this tiny sphere 

Had reached the waiting earth. 

And then, another drop there was. 
Of but the slightest weight. 

And this, as well, went down and down 
To join its little mate. 



200 A Whistling Farmer 

As louder now the storm arose, 
And wilder grew the night, 

Some other drops went down and down 
To join them in their flight. 

And soon a shower these become. 

Fast merging into rain. 
And millions now went down and down, 

A-flooding all the plain. 

And sharply, too, the lightnings leaped 
Out boldly from the cloud. 

And thunders boomed and boomed again 
Their mutterings more loud. 

And swift the winds went das£ing by, 
And streams began to roar. 

And high and higher rose the flood, 
O'erleaping every shore. 

And darkness flung her robes afar. 

Beneath an inky sky, 
And death went by and by again 

In waters dashing high. 



BESSIE BOUNTON 

In sight of the city. 
In sound of the town 
"Where wealth and beauty 
Goes round and round, 
Through the long, cold night 
I'm still ungoT\Tied, 
Ungowned on the Cutler Mountain. 



A Whistling Farmer 201 

With rubbish and logs 
For my hurable bed, 
And these lurid flames 
Encircling my head, 
And this is the way that 
I suffered and bled, — 
And bled on the Cutler Mountain. 

When lured to my death 
By a fiendish brute, 
And one who would rob 
And burn and shoot, — 
And how can I rest 
In my grave so mute,^ 
So mute on the Cutler ^Mountain ? 

All burned to a crisp, 
My eyes, face, and hair, 
And frozen like marble 
]\Iy figure so fair. 
Oh, agonies mine ! 
My agonies share. 
With me, on the Cutler ]\Iountain. 

For I'm shot and burned 
And stripped and froze, 
And tortured for days 
By a fly that blows. 
And eaten by maggots, — 
And God only knows 
I'm here on the Cutler Mountain. 

And these tortures here, 
Amid the evening gloam. 
Such sweet, sweet music 
Beneath the starry dome. 



202 A Whistling Farmer 

And the portals open, 
And the angels come, 
They come to the Cutler Mountain. 

To the wild eagle's scream, 
And the dashing fountain, 
And the funeral pyre 
Of lone Bessie Bounton, 
A long farewell for 
My soul mounting 
Beyond the Cutler Mountain. 

Up higher and higher. 
And higher and higher, 
Beyond the range of earth, 
Beyond the shot and fire. 
And ever on beyond 
All craving and desire, — 
Beyond the Cutler Mountain. 

Beyond the night of death. 
And ever still I'm tossed, 
Beyond, and still beyond, — 
And yet I'm not lost, 
Beyond the Milky Way 
Its hazy fields I've crossed, — 
Oh, mine forever, — hallelujah! 

In sight of the city, 
In sound of the town. 
With its golden streets 
And its jewel'd crown, 
The New Jerusalem 
At last I've found, — 
The eternal God, and Heaven. 



A Whistling Farmer 203 



ELSIE CLARK 

A FLASH in the darkness, 

A gleam in the dark, 
A stranger to rashness, 

A twittering lark. 
Contending and mending. 
And pleasantries sending. 
Is Elsie, fair Elsie, 

My own Elsie Clark. 
My own Elsie, ever, 

Of fair Eaton town. 
Adjacent some rivers 

Of lasting renown, — 
The Piatt, and the Pudre, — 

And beautiful town, 
The colony town 
Of pioneer days. 
Away at the sunrise. 

By meadow and park, 
As freely her fun flies 

At every remark. 
And smiling and tripping 
As onward she's skipping. 
Is Elsie, dear Elsie, 
My own Elsie Clark. 
But aye, from this village, 

From which you may tum,- 
This gem, and its tillage. 

In sight of Lucerne, 
And scenes, far removed 

From early childhood. 
To blessings awaiting 

A pure motherhood; 



204 A Whistling Farmer 

Elsie of Eaton, 

May time still unfold 
A life that will sweeten 
With pleasures untold, 
And ever dash onward 
For life's noble mark, 
My Elsie, sweet Elsie, 
My own Elsie Clark! 



THE LEAVES THAT FALL 

Compute the grass upon the ground. 
In all the fields here strewn around. 
And every blade, it must come down, 
And one by one, and one by one. 
And one by one the leaflets fall, — 
And one by one, and one bj^ one 
But in the end death takes them all, — 
And one by one, and one by one. 
And one by one the days go by, 
And one by one, and one by one. 
As do the stars that fill the sky, 
And one by one, and one by one, 
And one by one the years glide on, 
And one by one, and one hy one. 
And ere we know they all are gone, 
And one by one, and one by one. 



THE PLEASANT WAY 

The ways that wind are most unkind. 
The pleasant way is straight. 

The tangled way's the mangled way. 
That many find too late. 



A Whistling Farmer 205 

The rudest way's the lewdest way, 

And full it is of sorrow, 
And all who stray along this way 

May fear the coming morrow. 
But pleasant wa3^s and pleasant days, 

They soothe the soul with pleasure. 
And pluck the dart from every heart. 

And leave a gladsome treasure. 
Then let us live that we may give 

To all some sweet affection, 
And when we 're gone we '11 still live on 

In fonder recollection. 



ADVICE 

To 'void the pangs of life 's distress. 
What, most of all, should one possess ? — 
What things that may be had by each, 
What useful things within our reach? 
Well, first of all, among this throng. 
Each one should be extremely strong. 
For out of this, — this root of Strength, 
A host of branches spring at length. 
And bud and blossom to amaze, 
And show their worth in endless ways. 
And of each branch that's pure and fair, 
These should receive our constant care. 
And Virtue here, she stands in front, 
And naught should be allowed to stunt 
The growth of this most godlike form 
That might be warped by passion 's storm ; 
And every care that thought can give 
Should train it in the ways to live. 



2o6 A Whistling Farmer 

For what is strength, at any price, 

If Virtue yields to passing vice? 

And next to these, I find the Truth 

That should be sought by every youth ; 

For Truth and Strength and Virtue are 

The greatest things in life by far. 

And search you may, but in these three 

Man finds his earthly trinity. 

And unto these all other things 

Will turn their face, and spread their wings. 

And Love herself is but the child 

Of Strength and Virtue undefiled, 

So all, and all, and all that be 

Bow down before these sacred three. 



DOROTHY BARFOOTE 

'Way down along the Delaware, — 
*Way down this shady thoroughfare,- 
Wee's the maiden living there 

With her curls; 
She's the fairest of the fair. 
Golden ringlets in her hair, 
Lightly tripping as the air. 

Like the squirr'ls. 

With a temper few can rile, 
So confiding is her smile. 
She is laughing all the while 

On the grass. 
She's a stranger unto guile, 
And the sweetest little child 
In the city, by a mile, 

That I pass. 



A Whistling Farmer 207 

At your playhouse, where you've played, 
Down the brooklet in the shade. 
Where you often went to wade, 

You may find 
Deep impressions have been made. 
By some lover down the glade. 
That will never, never fade 

From your mind. 

For some playmate, once so proud, 
Now so meekly in his shroud. 
Will be missing from the crowd 

Where you go; 
Evening vespers tolling loud. 
Empty spaces where he bowed, — 
These may haunt you like a cloud 

In its flow. 

But the darkness of your veil 
And the sadness of your wail 
And the windings of your trail, — 

These will pass, 
Like the wreckage of the gale. 
And your efforts that may fail, 
And your beauty that will pale 

Like the grass. 

You will learn, though, by and by, 
Consolation's always nigh, 
Ever frowning on the sigh 

Of the years, 
Never trifle, asking why, 
Floods of sunshine in the sky 
Bring a twinkle to the eye 

Filled with tears. 



2o8 A Whistling Farmer 

Like the shadows on the street, 
Youth's as transient as it's sweet, 
Or the strangers that you meet 

On your way; 
Blessings on your cottage neat. 
And your dainty little feet, 
In their movements ever fleet, 

Day by day. 

"Wisdom pineth for the sage, 

. Knowledge cometh after age. 

Youth is but a barren page 

Newly born; 
Often vexing in its rage. 
But its future we may gauge 
By its talents on the stage 

In the morn. 

Beauty lieth in your ways, 
Virtue addeth many days. 
Subtle venom oft betrays 

With a kiss; 
Shun the loafer with his gaze. 
And the vulgar in the plays, 
And a life that quickly slays, 

Little miss; 

And the fickleness of dress. 
With its signals of distress. 
And all ruthless showiness. 

And you'll find, 
In this restful simpleness. 
Such a blissful happiness 
In the easing of your breast, 

And your mind. 



A Whistling Farmer 209 

Modern follies often chase, 
Swifter than the swiftest race, 
Seeking stations, seeking place 

Day and night; 
Some with motives that are base 
Plainly stamped upon their face, 
Others wanting as to grace 

In their flight. 

What are vanities and pride. 
More than pleasures crucified? 
The indulgent may deride. 

But it's SO; 
All there is that's deified. 
Only naturalness abides. 
Else the ages all have lied, — 

Well we know. 

Hasty tempers blight and rend, 
Smiling faces always mend. 
Love should triumph to the end 

Of your days; 
With the volumes she has penned. 
And the armies she can send. 
May her empire still extend 
These displays. 

Modesty and gentle speech, — 
These are always in your reach; 
Like the pebbles on, the beach. 

They are free; 
What a sermon these could preach, 
Bringing blessings unto each! 
And a lesson they should teach 

All who be. 



210 A Whistling Farmer 



Elfin creature, pure and sweet, 
There's a wMsper down the street, 
And it's flying awful fleet 

Through the air; 
That the neighbors, when they meet, 
Ere they even stop to greet, 
Seem delighted to repeat, 

So beware! 

All young ladies, they should know, 
In life's struggles to and fro. 
Many shadows come and go 

And expand; 
And this fruitage, high and low, 
All the planters, when they mow, 
Are but reaping what they sow. 

As they planned. 

You remember Dora Smock, 
In her cottage down the block. 
How she answered to a knock 

On her door? 
It was midnight by the clock. 
When she turned that fatal lock, 
And they found her and her frock 

Smeared with gore. 

Found her face, — and body, too. 
Marred in death, and black and blue, 
Gaping wounds, and not a few. 

Lay open wide; 
Blood had gushed and spurted through 
Her silk and satin garments new, 
And she'd been a mother, too. 

Ere she died. 



A Whistling Farmer 211 

You remember Clarence Stife, 
And the romance of his life, 
How it was, they found his knife 

In her room? 
She was once his noble wife. 
Ere these whisperings were rife. 
Long before this bloody strife 

Sealed their doom. 

And you may yet remember still. 
The chase and capture on the hill, 
And that wild exciting thrill 

To old and young? 
Down the river, near the mill, 
"Where the moaning waters spill. 
And that being, mute and still, 

That they hung. 

In our ropes of sand and slime, 
Wound around the reels of time. 
There are moments most sublime 

For us all; 
In the shadows of the chime. 
There are many in their prime 
Who are ever plotting crime 

Ere they fall. 

We have passions, when they're freed, 

That we scarcely ever heed, 

That can smash the strongest creed 

In the land; 
And so ruthless is their greed. 
Thoughtful parents always lead, 
Nor should any stop to plead, 

But commgind. 



212 A Whistling Farmer 

Love's a stranger unto some, 
Seeking respite in their rum, 
They're as stagnant as the scum 

On the bog; 
Timid mortals, partly dumb, 
Crowd the counters of the slum, 
While they mumble o'er a crumb. 

And their grog. 

Dorothy Barfoote, time will wing, 
Onward flowing like the spring. 
And its echoes soon will ring 

Womanhood. 
While the merrymakers bring 
Garlands, from the queen and king. 
May all nature round you sing, — 

As it should. 

Quickly now, your star will rise, 
Some fair Jupiter that lies 
Deeply hidden, I surmise, 

From your sight, 
Will be master of your sighs, 
And be flooding all your skies 
And the gladness of your eyes 

With delight. 

Hark, this phantom draweth near, 
That's been waiting year by year! 
What its mission may be here. 

None can tell. 
Sharper than the sharpest spear. 
It's an object many fear, 
For it often brings a tear, — 

And a knell. 



A Whistling Farmer 213 

Patience now, for love must grow, 

Only older ones may know 

How these throbbing symptoms flow, 

As they drift, 
Stormlike, in their sweeping blow, 
Darting hither, to and fro. 
Shot from Cupid's magic bow, 

Keen and swift. 

All who hearken to this god, 
Ere they slumber 'neath the sod, 
Are the valiant, who have trod 

On before; 
Many doubters slowly plod, 
These are only smoothly shod, 
So's the nodder, with his nod 

And his snore. 

Dorothy, in dreams by night. 
Comes a picture, clear and bright. 
Painted by some passing wight, 

I suppose; 
Yet, so agile is the flight 
Of this tiny little sprite. 
Oft he giggles with delight 

Ere he goes. 

In this picture I can see 

Glimpses of futurity. 

Some fine country, wide and free. 

Spread around, 
There's the cottage, 'neath the tree, 
And its owners, he and she, 
"With their baby on their knee. 

Neatly gowned. 



214 A. Whistling Farmer 

Stretching onward down the lane, 
On, and onward, yet again, 
Homes of comfort dot the plain, 

Far and near; 
Endless fields of tossing grain, 
Ever billowing amain, 
Guaranteeing ample gain. 

Year by year. 

Stately forests, here and there. 
Sparkling streamlets glint and glare. 
Birds so happy fill the air 

With their song; 
Nooks of beauty, jeweled rare. 
Winding driveways everywhere. 
Nodding flowers peep and stare 

All day long. 

Here the creature meets his God, 
Face to face in every clod, 
And he loveth every rod 

Of the lea; 
And he looks to this, the sod. 
Like the mason to his hod ; 
Or the netter, netting cod, 

To the sea. 

And look to this, this cup of cheer, 
Along the lines of honor, dear. 
And life, and love, without a fear; 
Bide your time. 

And brush aside this passing tear. 
That too often lingers near, 
And bright you'll find existence here. 
And sublime. 



A Whistling Farmer 215 

And down this Delaware, some day, 
And down this thoroughfare, I lay, 
And who he is, I dare not say, 

With his ring; 
As when your thoughts are far away. 
Within the staging of life's play, 
All laden down with flowers gay 

He will bring, 

Gladness to your longing heart; 
And with a suitor's ardent art, 
And for a promise, ere you part. 

He will plead, 
And the quivers of his dart. 
And the beauty of his chart, 
And the richness of his mart 

You will heed. 

Blessings now, I trust, will be 
Boundless as the open sea. 
And your spirit just as free 

As the bird 
In the branches of the tree. 
Overflowing in its glee, 
With some joyous melody, 

That you've heard. 

And in the years not far away, 
When I'm feeble, old and gray, 
I should love to rest some day 

On your lawn, 
Or go sailing down the bay. 
While your children romp and play. 
And for this I often pray. 

Ere I'm gone. 



2i6 A Whistling Farmer 



SOMETIME 

Sometime in the hush of evening, 

Sometime when the sun is low, 
As when at last we are leaving 

The swish of the harbor's flow;" 
Sometime when our hearts are beating 

More faintly, and faintly still, 
Sometime when our life's retreating 

Disorderly over the hill. 
May there come to all that's mortal. 

The glimpse of a brighter road 
That leadeth unto a portal 

Of some celestial abode! 
And whether it be oblivion 

Or life in a higher sphere, 
For all, it's an endless heaven 

That stealeth awav our fear. 



WHAT'S THE TROUBLE? 

Some more money leaves our city, 
Some more poverty at home. 

Tell the mayor, sing the ditty, 
Loud enough to startle Rome. 

"What's the matter with our people? 

Why this begging for a job? 
Poor as mice beneath the steeple 

That another comes to rob. 

Build some factories, — we can do it,- 
Build a wall around our home, 



A Whistling Farmer 217 

If we don't, we'll surely rue it, 
And they'll laugh at us in Rome. 

See this long array of houses, 
That stand empty on the hill. 

And my blood within me rouses 
When I see folks leaving still. 

What's the matter with our city? 

Who is gloating 'er her shame ? 
Aye, there 's something more than pity 

Needed to preserve her name. 

All we have goes out to others; 

Not a cent remains at home, 
my sisters and my brothers. 

How we bow us down to Rome. 



TO A DEAD FLY 

And what is this that I behold, 
Out here among this stinging cold? 
Aye, this is death I'm passing by. 
The ghostly form of some dead fly. 
And yet of this, this painless form. 
What cares it now about the storm, 
Or howling winds that come and go, 
Or biting frost and drifting snow ? 
And still, all this I'm passing by, — 
All this was once a little fly. 
And even now its wings are wide. 
As oft they were before it died. 
And yet, for truth, wee little fly. 
In life I longed for thee to die. 



{( 



2i8 A Whistling Farmer 



But now I find you here to-day 

As harmless as the trodden clay. 

And like you seem a ball of frost, 

Forever back and forward tossed, 

And ever swinging in the storm. 

Each day I pass your tiny form. 

And often here what thoughts arise ! — 

Deep thoughts, to which no one replies. 

And musings oft o'erwhelm my brain, 

And hopes and fears, an endless train. 

And what of all this tangled thought, — 

And strange conjectures this has brought. 

For since, as now, you're safe in death, 

I often pause and hold my breath. 

Or softly murmur, passing by: 

I, too, am but a helpless fly." 

For yet, indeed, how may I tell 

What all this is that once befell 

So small a creature as you are, 

That swings across my window bar? 

And since thy fleeting life is gone. 

And dissolution's sweeping on. 

And every earthly pleasure's past 

That once so strongly held you fast, 

Before thy form, may I not bow. 

In search of information now? 

For this one query, often scoffed. 

Has come to haunt my spirit oft, 

And left me ever still aghast. 

About the future and the past. 

And what it is, I'd ask of thee. 

To set my longing spirit free. 

And bring to me a lasting bliss. 

The query is, and that is this: 

Had you a spirit like my own, 

A spirit still to me unknown. 



A Whistling Farmer 219 

That death released in passing by, 
Had you a spirit, little fly? 
Ah, silent still ? — as silent still. 
As I shall be upon the hill. 
And yet, sometime, poor little fly, 
Let's hope together, you and I, 
Sometime this screen will open wide, 
On what as yet has been denied. 
This weakness here, this timid part, 
But this it is that makes us start. 
And shivering stand amid the gloom 
That hovers round our every tomb. 
And since you're gone, may you repose 
Beneath the fragrance of some rose, 
And this may be beside my own. 
Then we can rest in peace alone, — 
In calm contentment as we lie, 
Awaiting yet some by and by. 
And once again, of thee out there, 
Among this storm and frosty air. 
Of thee I 'd ask, poor little fly : 
Ere yet alone you came to die, 
Were you cast off by all your friends, 
On whom our pleasure most depends, 
And scoffed and scorned, as though a fool, 
And made the butt of ridicule 
By high and low, and every one 
With whom you met beneath the sun? 
If so, my heart goes out to you, 
And ever bleeds, and bleeds anew. 
And here, once more, I'd ask of thee 
That was, and yet again may be — 
For if it be a truth that's told, 
By Darwin, back in ages old, 
My race, and all it e'er may be, 
Was once as slight as this I see — 



220 A Whistling Farmer 

So once again, before I turn 

To other fields of less concern, 

Again I'd ask, in passing by: 

Had you a home in which to die, 

A home, somewhere among your friends, 

On which advancing age depends. 

And pleasant hearth, and family ties. 

On which the best of us relies. 

Remaining still forever green. 

Before you died upon this screen ? 

Or did you bid adieu to kin 

And vow you'd ne'er return again? 

If naught of this, I know not why 

You sought this stormy place to die. 

Or were you shoo 'd from some warm room, 

By mothers armed with kitchen broom, 

Or slyly watched by toads and frogs; 

And made the mark of snapping dogs ; 

Or switched about by every tail, 

Just like the beating of the flail, 

Until, with hatred thus imbued, 

And that foul imp, ingratitude. 

You spread your tiny wings at last, 

And vowed you'd bury all the past? 

If this it was, poor little fly, 

So oft it is, when death is nigh. 

Each one of us is apt to find 

Ingratitude is most unkind. 

And was it this that caused your plight 

And plunged you in this wintry night, 

And sent you weeping down the years, 

A stranger unto all but tears. 

Until in time, the climax came, 

And let you die a death of shame ? 

If so, 'twere idle to deny. 

These ruined hopes that round us lie 



A Whistling Farmer 221 

Bestrew the earth from age to age, 

And laugh at us from every page. 

And hard it were, if you, unknown, 

Should find an obscure grave alone! 

But all around you wrecks abound 

That, like yourself, remain uncrowned. 

And while we stand, and wait, and sigh, 

The ends and aims for which we try 

Are like the ship that sails away 

From some transparent inland bay, 

To breast the ocean's outer swell. 

Whose fate, no one may ever tell. 

So full of hope are all aboard, 

So happy when the ship's unmoored, 

So like to life, the whole world o'er. 

And fog and mist and unseen shore, 

And every reef, and every shoal, 

That seeks to rob us of our goal. 

As when we go, as when we go. 

To where, alas, as when we go. 

I'd give my heart, torn from my breast 

If I for sure knew all the rest. 

Yes, I'd give it freely, could I see. 

Beyond this grave of mystery; 

And yet it seems, nor you nor I 

Can glimpse these things, poor little fly ! 



A PASSING WORLD 

In vagueness here we struggle on, 
Among this gloom surrounding, 

And look to this, the early dawn, 
As something most astounding. 



222 A Whistling Farmer 

But wait awhile, until our earth 
More brightly grows in rising, 

And this will show in ways of worth 
A host of things surprising. 

But when all this has reached its noon, 
And swings toward its setting, 

Mankind will weep a passing boon 
Through ages of regretting. 

For yet this earth on which we live 
Must die as we are dying; 

And back to Nature's God must give 
These beauties round us lying. 

And of all life that we behold. 
Each tender cord must sever, 

And silent lie, and stark and cold, 
And slumber on forever. 

For while our earth still blooms to-day, 
She has not always bloomed, 

And she must answer with decay, 
And be herself entombed. 



AVIS LINNELL 

How proud is man, how sad his fall ! 

How keen is his disgrace. 
How weak his plan, how black his pall, 

How guilty seems his face ! 
How bleak his day, how dark his night, 

With not a star above, 



A Whistling Farmer 223 

How weak his clay, how plain his fright, 

How fickle seemeth love ! 
How quick to stray, how keen to mar, 

How saintly seemed his face, 
How prone to pray, but, oh, that scar 

No mortal can efface ! 
Some darling son, some mother's hope 

Of joy in after years. 
His race is run, behold the rope. 

And faces shorn of tears ! 
He sleeps alone, who speaks his name, 

Whose pardon can he crave. 
Who can atone, who bear his shame, 

Who weeps around his grave? 

How bright her day, how fair her night, 

With starry hosts above, 
How pure her clay, how soft her light, 

How constant seemeth love ! 
How near in death, how dear in life. 

How trusting, and how true, 
How sweet her breath, how spurned as wife, 

And yet, she never knew. 
She's sleeping, too, how calm her sleep. 

Out where the flowers bloom. 
Among the dew, — where angels keep 

Their vigils round her tomb. 
Some locks of hair, some father's pride, — 

His darling is no more; 
So young, so fair, so crucified, — 

The one we all adore ! 



224 A Whistling Farmer 



WAR 

An heir to tribulation, 
Man's battle-cry rings out 
Across the fields of strife, 
And lays its blighting hand 
On every field and flower. 
And soon, forgetting all 
The sacred things of life, 
And like a royal beast 
Forth springing on his way, 
He lays in utter waste 
The cotter's humble home. 
And gladly marches on 
In quest of other lands. 
And here, where motherhood 
Is totally forgot. 
And every finer sense 
Is trampled under foot, 
"We find around us strewn 
The evidences vast, 
Of man's colossal shame. 
And see these ruins here 
Is where the village stood, 
And yonder 's wailing cry 
Is from an orphan child. 
And what about this child, 
On which the hopes of aU 
Are based in after years. 
And is it best it should 
Be forced to stand and gaze 
Upon this picture here. 
And see its home in flames, 
And call, and call aloud 



A Whistling Farmer 225 

For those protecting arms 
A mother's care and love 
Alone can ever give? 
Away with all of this, 
Away with those who claim 
That human progress calls 
For such a sacrifice! 
But while this cot may rise, 
And stand as once before 
Above these ruins here, 
And sweetly hum again 
The avenues of trade. 
This child will ever see 
The horrors of a day. 
When pestilence and war 
A mighty havoc wrought 
Around its peaceful home, 
And left a picture stamped 
Upon its youthful brain 
That time cannot efface. 
The years go by apace, 
The child is now a man. 
And drying all his tears. 
He bows before his God 
And makes a new resolve; 
And hateful seemeth now 
The peaceful walks of life. 
Reared in the midst of strife 
And desolated homes, 
Throughout the coming years 
Impatiently he waits 
To stab his fellow-man. 
And *'War!" he shrieks aloud 
To every passerby, 
**I saw my parents die 
Around their humble cot, 



226 A Whistling Farmer 

And from an orphan child 
I 've ever longed for this. 
'Revenge! revenge!' shall be 
My constant battle-cry 
As long as life may last.'' 



OUT FOR A RAMBLE 

And what is this, that smites my ear, 
And what are all these sounds I hear, 
This jahher) jabher, jabhering, 
And huzz, and JiutyIj and flashing wingj 
And endless calls, among the throng, 
That ever sweep the ways along, 
And leave impressions on the mind, 
That some great ruler, wise and kind, 
Hath deep implanted in the breast. 
That all may be forever blessed? 
For each of these, and every one. 
They point toward the central sun. 
And ''I am God!" proclaims the tide, 
I swing across the oceans wide, 
And rise and fall and rise again, 
As lord of all its vast domain. ' ' 
'And I am, too," proclaims the land. 
Behold, I bloom on every hand. 
And send my fruitage far and near. 
O'er all the earth from year to year." 
''And I, as well," "And I," "And I," 
I heard ten thousand tongues reply, 
Loud rumbling down the mountain side. 
And dashing o'er the valleys wide. 
And drifting sand, and stone and sod, 
And I, and I, and I am God!" 



li 



i I 



a 



A Whistling Farmer 227 

And none so great, and none so small, 

But what this thought was left by all. 

A portion here, a portion there, 

The land, the ocean, and the air, 

In life, or death, on every hand, 

Or continents, or grains of sand, 

Or wild green vales no foot hath trod. 

They each one claim a part of God. 

Or seek the sunbeam in its flight. 

Or bow in awe before the night. 

Or trail the comet in its course 

Of frightful speed and doubtful force. 

Or ask the bird about its song. 

Or shrub, or tree, or creeping vine, 

And all will tell you they're divine. 



REBUKED 

"When I and my friend,- 

That's my dinner-pail,- 
Went tripping along 

O'er the factory trail, 
I noticed a man 

Out walking alone. 
With a heavy heart 

And a troubled moan. 
Bewailing his fate 

In life's early noon. 
When nearing his gate 

One morning in June. 
But never a mention 

Concerning his health, 
Or grief that follows 

The passing of wealth ; 



228 A Whistling Farmer 

For lie owned the kine 

On the distant hills, 
And promising mines 

And extensive mills, 
And a mansion, too, 

That was famed afar. 
In sight of the deep 

Blue ocean's bar. 
And children, to humor 

His fatherly pride, 
And a lovely wife, 

And estates beside. 
And so vast were they, 

"With scarcely a bound. 
They encompassed the 

Whole of Cameron town. 
But his face was drawn, 

And his look was sad. 
And nothing to show 

That his heart was glad. 
So I hid from sight 

As the man drew nigh, 
For long I had sought 

For some reason why. 
And now, he had stopped, 

And glancing around, 
Again he Avas darting 

Away with a bound; 
As quickly and straight 

As a homing bee, 
To the cooling shades 

Of a linden tree. 
And watching him closely, 

It was I that found, 
That the man was digging 

A hole in the srround. 



A Whistling Farmer 229 

And lifting a vessel, 

All battered and old, 
I saw he was hiding 

His glittering gold. 
Then smoothing the soil, — 

Never leaving a trace. 
That any might ever 

Discover the place. 
And softly I murmured. 

As he smoothed the sod, 
"I've found the miser, 

And the miser's god.'' 
And while he was lying 

Out under the shade. 
Distinctly I heard the 

Remarks that he made. 
''And oh! for a million 

That jingles so fine. 
Have I sought and sought 

With this heart of mine !— 
Where the waves dash high 

O'er the pathless deep, 
And the storm-king howls 

With a furious leap. 
And ever preserving, 

With factory and mine, 
Have I sought and sought 

With this heart of mine ! 
While happiness ever. 

From others, I hear, 
And pleasures are filling 

The whole of the year, 
Oh, wide, wide world 

Overflowing with play, 
And why is my heart 

So heavy to-day?" 



230 A Whistling Farmer 



'I know," said a cricket 

Along by the road, 
'I know the sorrows 

Of an idler's load, 
For you snore out here 

In the shade all day. 
While others are toiling 

Their lives away." 
And then, from the sap. 

That's feeding the leaf: 
''And what an example 

Of sadness and grief! 
But I'm just as busy 

As busy can be, 
All over the earth 

With meadow and tree. 
And the fields, I give. 

With their leaves unfurled. 
The pleasures they find 

In feeding the world." 
''And there's Mother Jones 

That lives down the road. 
Remarked an aged 

And respectable toad, 
"I was grieved, in passing 

Her cottage to-day. 
To find the old lady 

Was out making hay. 
And, ah, what a blessing, 

If she had your gold. 
Instead of your pouring it 

Down in a hole ! ' ' 
And I," said the wren, 

With quivering breast, 
A-tug at some linten 

For lining her nest, — 



< c 



A Whistling Farmer 231 

''Behold my contentment! 

While laboring long, 
Forever I'm singing 

A twittering song." 
And this from the ant 

Out searching for food: 
''And I know the cancer 

That's poisoned your mood. 
For, day after day, 

While others may reap, 
I find you out here 

In the meadow asleep!" 
And grabbing his nose. 

He gave it a jerk, 
Commanding the sluggard 

To toddle to work. 
"And hike!" said the bee 

In hurrying flight, 
"For I know the sweetness 

Of labor's delight, 
In gathering honeys 

From meadow and lawn. 
To nourish my babies 

Long after I'm gone." 
And while he yet lay. 

She folded her wing. 
And square on his lip now 

She gave him a sting. 
And this, while a robin. 

Just in from the field, 
With a worm in her beak 

For the little one's meal. 
Was thinking, no doubt, — 

But never a tweet! 
Examples are golden, 

And silence discreet. 



^32 A Whistling Farmer 



THE GODDESS OF HOPE 

Amon© these ruins here 
That all around us lie, 
Hope, eternal hope remains, 
Forever still the same. 
And unto her it is, 
No faithless need apply, 
Or cravens ever come 
With lamentations loud, 
For, while the weaker fall 
Aweary by the way. 
As like the rifted rocks. 
Immovable she stands. 
And points to every one 
The haven of repose. 
And with a grasp and strength 
Of changeless attitude. 
She indicates the way, 
That ever open lies 
Amid the breakers round. 
And like, she seems to be, 
A mother unto all. 
And with a mother's love, 
She ever cries aloud 
To every passerby: 
"When honors take the wing. 
And poverty comes by 
And claims you as her own, 

weary, wandering man, 

1 bid you not despair 

At fortune's luckless way, 
But come and bow you down 
Before my changeless throne, 
And make a new resolve." 



A Whistling Farmer 233 



IN THE SPRING 

When the sun shines bright 

And the heat comes down, 
And the grass peeps out 

From the springtime ground, 
'Ah, ha!" says the bat, 

In his dungeon so deep. 
As he yawns and he wakes 

From a nine months' sleep, 
'Ah, ha! for it's time 

That all of us bats. 
Were out on the wing 

For some wee little gnats. ' ' 
For the insect flies 

And the wild birds sing, 
And, oh, for the joys 

Of an early spring ! 
And the harsh winds cease 

And the days wax long. 
And the sun moves north 

As he grows more strong. 
And the snow-birds leave 

And the pewees come. 
And a rumbling's heard 

From the pheasant's drum. 
And, oh, for a sounding 

I long since knew. 
When the grouse cocks crowed 

Like & hoo woo 00! 
And the gophers all dug 

In the black, moist earth. 
And the world woke up 

To a new-found birth. 



234 A Whistling Farmer 

And the earth seems glad 

When the sun shines bright, 
And the storms pass by 

In their hurrying flight. 
And the brooks glide on 

With a new-found glee, 
And hustle and hustle 

In search of the sea. 
And the cold lets up, 

And the rains come down, 
And the sap leaps out 

From the warm moist ground. 
And this is the time 

That we all should know, 
When the buds swell out 

And the green leaves grow. 
And the sun goes down, 

And the clouds look red, 
And the tools come out 

From the farmer's shed. 
For he's been abroad 

And he's strolled all around, 
And he finds no frost 

Kemains in the ground. 
And away to the farms 

In the springtime thaw. 
It's time for the seeds 

And the gee! whoa! haw! 
Way down in the cornfields 

A-drilling in the grain. 
All over the country 

There's millions again, 
And it's, ho, for the wheat! 

And it's, ho, for the rye! 
And it's gee! whoa! haw! 

As the days go by. 



A Whistling Farmer 235 

And it's cUck-ity clack 

As the corn goes in, 
For the corn's down low 

In the old man's bin. 
And the plowboys come 

When the corn's all in, 
And it's gee! whoa! haw! 

All over again, 
Till the corn's laid by 

And the tools in store, 
And the toilers are found 

At their homes once more. 
And here's to the farmer, — 

And the one true king, — 
When the ground thaws out 

In the early spring ! 



THE MYSTERY OF MAN 

In vague conjectures oft, it seems to me, from out 
the depths of space, discussing thus, there comes a 
low sweet voice. And now, from whence cometh man ? 
For of his origin, like that of his destiny, as yet, it 
would appear, we may not know. And while the 
rocks declare there was a time when he was not; 
whether it be true or false, in some remote past, he 
found a lodgment here upon our swinging globe, the 
recipient, perchance, of converging congenialities: 
The rudimental offspring of some tropical paradise. 
But as to his sphere of action then, we can only conjec- 
ture now ; and still it must have been, as it were, babes 
in the manger, helpless little babes, male and female, 
he and she. 

But while the ages sped along, they grew, and they 



236 A Whistling Farmei* 

waxed stronger and stronger day by day. And so it 
was in the course of time, they stood forth fully devel- 
oped : he, a robust man, and she, a mature woman. 

And then, in the fullness of their strength and ma- 
turity, they arose from their lowly state, and they 
dressed themselves in the rude leaves of the forest, 
and they went forth to view the beautiful things of 
the world, which all around them lay in rich pro- 
fusion strewn, — in the crimson of the cloud, in the 
murmur of the stream, and the twinkling of the starry 
fields above. And they were greatly pleased with 
the prospects of life that lay before them. Lured 
on and on, as they were, by a love of adventure and 
the wonderful problems of creation, they wearied not 
in their quest for more and more happiness, until they 
had encompassed the uttermost ends of the earth. 

And as they wander on, and yet forever on, to-day 
we find them lost among the fruitful vales, and on 
the morrow still continuing their way amid the 
stretches vast of some primeval wood. Like our chil- 
dren now, they gather as they go the flowers by 
the way. And here and there they pause, enraptured 
with the scenes that all around lie. Or touched with 
the pleading cries of some wild bird for its lost mate, 
they linger long in mutual pity oft. 

But maturity has affections of its own, and it ever 
hopes, and it ever dreams of these. And while they 
passed along upon their journeying, they bethought 
themselves, and they sat them down to rest among the 
harmonious blendings of a primitive world, and they 
saw, and they speculated long upon the ways of life, 
and all its mysteries. And so it was, in the course 
of time, that they learned to love. And they em- 
braced one another, and they became man and wife. 
And they sought out a beautiful location in the vales 
that lay around, and here they tarried long, and 



A Whistling Farmer 237 

tliey built for themselves a rude home in the wilder- 
ness, and they brought forth a family of children. 
And they went forth to labor in the various fields 
of human endeavor, and they wrought patiently 
throughout the short day that lay before them. And 
they made ample provision for themselves and their 
household. And when the evening came, aweary with 
the trials and tribulations of life, they robed them- 
selves again in the cold soils of the earth, and they 
lay them down to sleep, in that long and peaceful 
slumber that we know not of. 

And they were the kings of the earth, and they 
were the monarchs of the world. And they were the 
weavers, and they were the workers, in every coun- 
try fair, and every land where man has made himself 
a home. And they were the beggars by the wayside, 
pleading for alms. It matters not, since all of these 
were of one flesh. And now they are gone ; yes, the 
whole of them are gone forever. And those vast slabs 
of stone, that were hewn from the mountainside, and 
placed above their graves as a token of respect, — 
what has become of these? Do they still serve the 
purpose of their creation? No, verily; for all these 
have perished as they perished ; and their very names, 
and their occupations, and their handiwork, that 
wrought and carved and built upon a thousand hills. 
And where may this be found? Alas, all this lies 
prostrate in the dust. And naught is there to-day 
to indicate that they ever were, save those of their 
progeny that they left behind them. 

And of such is the mystery of man : his conception, 
his growth, and all that backward lies, and that which 
lies ahead, and mystifies the mind. And from his 
hiding-place he comes among us still, he comes as a 
helpless little babe, claiming our love, our sympa- 
thies, and our blessings. And he grows to manhood 



238 A Whistling Farmer 

among us; and he goes out into the world to look 
around him. And he takes unto himself a helpmate, 
and he lays his plans, and he begins to build. And 
whether it be the building of a home, the building of 
a city, or the building of an empire, it matters little. 
For should he make mistakes, that ruin all his plans, 
another comes along and finds a better way. And so 
he labors on until the evening comes, and then he 
lays aside his ledger or his pen, and calling for his 
friends, he bids them all adieu, and starts again upon 
that mysterious voyage from whence he came, — once 
more, as it were, a mere atom of dust, drawn from 
the inexhaustible nursery of the universe, to which 
he can neither add nor subtract. And so the ages 
pass along, the while we ever seek for more and 
more light. 
But find it not. 



A BORROWED TOOL 

Muck like we are a tool to-day, — 

And this we only borrow, 
And use a while along the way, 

And then return to-morrow. 
An implement, as if it were, 

Belonging to our neighbor, 
And constantly from year to year 

We lead a life of labor. 
And with this tool we sow and reap, 

In many ways that's clever, 
And weary, then, we fall asleep, 

And slumber on forever. 



A Whistling Farmer 239 



BROTHERS IN NATURE 

One pleasant morn 
A child was born, 

A helpless mite, and wee, 
And that same morn, 
Near by, was born, 

A tiny little tree. 
And from their birth. 
The air and earth 

Upon them ever smiled, 
For God, maybe, 
He loves the tree 

As dearly as the child. 
And so these two 
Together grew. 

That had an even birth, 
And this one throve, 
And that one strove 

To beautify the earth. 
And while the child 
That cooed and smiled 

Grew up to be a man. 
This tiny tree. 
As all could see. 

Continued to expand. 
The years went by, — 
I don't know why 

The man should die so soon, — 
For all can see. 
It's not the tree 

That brings the greatest boon. 



240 A Whistling Farmer 

And yet, maybe, 
This guileless tree, 

But kept abreast with God, 
And never rent 
His covenant. 

Commanding it to plod. 
But who would be 
A forest tree, 

Unnoticed in its falling. 
To die, and rot. 
And be forgot? — 

The very thought's appalling. 



OLD DAPPLE GRAY 

Dim lies the scene, old Dapple Gray, — 
Dim lies the scene, and far away, 
As when a child I used to play 
Around thy carriage wheel. 

And since you're gone, old Dapple Gray, — 
And since you're gone, time's slipped away 
Until I find myself to-day 

Like thee of other years. 

And with thee, too, has gone thy post, 
Where grandpa used to hitch thee most, 
And where so oft I 've heard him boast 
Thy noble qualities. 

And e'en the barn, that held thy stall 
And tiny crib along the wall, 
All these have passed, for buildings tall, — 
The Galoway Hotel. 



A Whistling Farmer 241 

Yes, things have changed, old Dapple Gray, 
Since oft I stopped along the way, 
To pat thy neck, and feed thee hay, 
Upon my way to school. 

And all is new along the street, 
Where throngs go by with flying feet. 
And all the ones with whom I meet 
Are strangers unto me. 

As well thy pasture o'er the hill, — 
That grandpa left me in his will, — 
Where all was once so hushed and still. 
There's naught but memories. 

But like thyself, old Dapple Gray, 
Each one of us is mostly clay. 
And all, ere long, must pass away, 
To mingle with the soil. 



THE CLIFF DWELLERS 

Behold these relics of a race 

That lived so long ago, 
That time has blotted every trace, 

Like footprints made in snow. - 

Here are the fragments of a man, 
And there, a winding-sheet, 

While science comes to search and scan 
Along the silent street. 

And now, — so long it seems to-day, — 

The centuries have fled. 
That man can never brush away 

The mystery of the dead. 



242 A Whistling Farmer 

And of the relics that I saw, 

Not one is used to-day. 
Thus progress vindicates her law, 

Since Mangus passed away. 

Locked in the mountain's granite heart, 

Their key was hidden well, 
By those who came and played their part. 

And vowed they'd never tell. 

And histories may yet he writ 

About this race that's lost, 
And vague imaginations flit, 

With reveries embossed. 

But all that we may ever know. 

Is supposition now. 
While yet the seasons come and go, 

Or why, or when, or how. 

Except we see, in ages gone, 

A people who have flown. 
Before this intellectual dawn 

Used hatchets made of stone. 

And here the river flowed for them. 
And here the babe was born. 

Among these mortars, precious gems. 
That ground their Indian corn. 

And we, like they, some day may lie 

Dim hidden on the shore. 
And men may come and search and try 

Our history to explore. 



A Whistling Farmer 243 

Our cities, too, like theirs, may be 

Dira fragments of the past, 
Engulfed by Time's remorseless sea, 

In mj'stery at last. 

And where God's acre stands to-day. 

And memories still bloom, 
Profaning hands may come and lay 

Their clutches on our tomb. 



THE UNKNOWN 

To fathom all there is of unresponsive man. 

And lay before the world his skeleton of thought, — 

A mighty task it seems, of endless magnitude ; 

But when we come to that which lies beyond the 

range of mortal vision here, — 
How vain must ever be our searchino: after this ! 



GOING BACK HOME 

'Twill broader make the mind, I know. 

And lighter make the rod. 
To feast upon the scenes once more 

Our youthful feet have trod. 
'Twill bring a gladness to the heart, 

And brighter make the eye. 
And flush the face with youth again 

That's swiftl}^ passing by, 
To stroll out o'er the meadow lands 

And listen to the lark, 
And hunt for names among the woods 

We cut upon its bark. 



244 A Whistling Farmer 

And seek again the dear old farm 

Where once we felt so proud, 
As when we drove our team afield 

And like a farmer plowed. 
And many things I know will be 

As dear to me as when 
A child I sat in wonderment 

And listened to the wren. 
The finest mansion on the hill 

Is but a pile of stone, 
Compared to simple cottages 

Our early life has known. 
And clods along the country roads 

That bruised our tender feet 
Are still more dear to us by far 

Than any city street. 
"We see the oak, outspreading wide. 

The sugar tree and lin, 
And all around an endless train 

Comes flocking back again. 
My trunk and I are on the train. 

The gold that gilds the dome, — 
With pleasure, this I leave behind. 

To greet my youthful home. 



THE SOURCE 

Be careful, friends, whate'er you do, 
For thought can make, or ruin, you. 
For serpentlike, these often wind 
Themselves around a passive mind. 
And all night long, and day by day, 
This thought may come, and steal away 
The strongest efforts of the brain, 
And bind them with an iron chain. 



A Whistling Farmer 245 

And while your reason may rebel 
In bursts of passion for a spell, 
This fact remains forever true: 
A thought can make a beast of you. 
And all the things you ever wrought, 
They're but an echo of your thought. 
And if you trace them back again, 
You'll find them hidden in your brain. 
And so, it's plain enough to see 
How thought can make or ruin thee. 
And since all this is doubtless true, 
There but remains one thing to do, 
'Tis this : To seek and try to find 
The bent that warps a passive mind. 
And where it's crooked, make it straight 
With blows of giant moral weight. 
And like to this, each one is built. 
With deeds of love, or deeds of guilt. 
And all he's done, his acts proclaim, 
With honors great, or lasting shame. 
So here we find the saint or knave. 
With monument, or Potter's grave. 
Far strewn around on every hand, 
Among the tombs of every land. 
And why," says one, ''why so unkind, — 
That e'en in death I cannot find 
For these old bones a resting-place, 
But w^hat they point to my disgrace?" 
Ah, here's the answer, — forceful, plain: 
The trouble lies within your brain." 
Then say not this, of thy right hand: 
If thou hadst wrought as I had planned, 
I might have swept the earth amain, 
Instead of this regretful stain." 



246 A Whistling Farmer 



MY DAILY PRAYER 

My God, if I should stray from thee, — 

Or rather, from thy changeless laws — 
Ope wide my thought, that 1 may see 

Thy goodness still in every cause. 
In all there is that doth unfold. 

Not written down in doubtful books. 
But hills and vales that I behold, 

And tidal waves, and gliding brooks. 
And let me see through all these things, 

I may commune with Thee above. 
Without so much as angel wings. 

To gain Thy everlasting love. 
That I may be the more inclined 

Thy priceless counselings to heed. 
Make strong my feet, and train my mind 

Away from life's remorseless greed. 
For Thou hast made me what I am, 

And given me this heart's desire. 
And should I stray, as like a lamb. 

From pastures green into the mire, 
My God, wilt Thou not call me back, 

Among thy flowery fields below, 
And point me out just what I lack, 

And all that I should ever know? 
That I may learn, while I behold 

Thy wonders still without surprise. 
Thou dost alone through these unfold 

Before the gladness of mine eyes. 
And teach me, God, the ways of life 

Are simple as the passing stream, 
If I but shun all hate and strife, 

That lie outside Thy blessed scheme. 



A Whistling Farmer 247 

And when, sometime, Thou callest me hence, 

To where as yet I may not know, 
My God, preserve my confidence 

I'll find Thee still where'er I go. 



THE GREED OF ONE MAN 

YE nations, warring nations. 

While your clang of battle swells, 
Down at Verdun, patient Verdun, 

And the distant Dardanelles, 
With your scheming and your plan, 
What wrecks you make of puny man. 
But louder than your booming cannon, 

Intonating far and wide. 
Comes a voice of wrath commanding: 

"Step aside, sir, step aside!" 
And you, you monster, born of woman ! 

And you, you demon, drunk with pride ! 
Why, you 're not decent, you 're not human, 

Step aside, sir, step aside ! 
And you who pray for peace and plenty 

And you who praise your foolish brave. 
Still driving children under twenty 

Downward to a horrid grave! 
And you, and you, who love to plunder. 

Applying still your greedy art 
And smile at countries torn asunder, 

To gratify a selfish heart. 
And you, the horror of the nations, 

And you, whose scheming all behold, 
And you, and all your damned relations, 

You're most the dastard in the fold. 



248 A Whistling Farmer 



AT THE FRONT 

Through faith it is we see beyond 
The pale of human thought, 

One glimpse, and, lo ! a brilliant dawn 
Forth stands before us wrought. 



THE TWIG THAT'S BENT 

Who bent this twig that's grown so big 
From such a small beginning, 

Who, like some storm, has crushed this form 
For yet another's sinning? 

Or has some knife thus made its life 

A wonderful contortion, 
More hideous with cursedness. 

Than ever was abortion? 

Nay, nay! this bent was merely sent 

To one and all, a teacher. 
To show the love of God above 

For every normal creature. 

For all that's wrought, some one has brought 

This unoffending cripple, 
From whence, to-day no one can say, 

Beyond his mother's nipple. 

But down the line, some poisoned tine 

Has left this germ of sorrow, 
That reaps and mows and onward flows 

As swiftly as an arrow. 



A Whistling Farmer 249 

And this is law, without a flaw, 

And not a soul should court it, 
Nor is there one beneath the sun 

That ever should support it. 

If so, this sting will surely bring 

An awful retribution, 
And while it's rife a purer life 

Appears the sole solution. 

So while we grope, there seems no hope 

Of gaining its removal. 
And all He meant by what He sent 

Should meet with our approval. 

Perfection seems the Master's dream, 

He culls and culls forever, 
And seeks and longs among the throngs 

Beyond his sacred river, 

A perfect race of form and face. 

From each and every nation. 
And thus, through man, He yet may plan 

More wonders of creation. 



HAD I A WING 

Had I a wing, that I might fly 

To that fair shore, 
Where life lives on, and none may die 

For evermore; 

Had I this wing, this tireless wing. 

Of spread and might, — 
This wing of strength, — that I might bring 

To reach the light; 



250 A Whistling Farmer 



This spirit wing, I pray, Lord, 

This wing of hope, 
This blessed wing and great reward 

Of boundless scope! 

If I but find this long-sought wing 

Of endless sweep, 
I'll rest me here and lie, and sing 

My heart to sleep. 



THE FAIRY 
No. II 

PART I 

One evening in the summertime. 
When all around me seemed sublime 
With sweet perfume the flowers lend, 
And varied pleasures that attend 
To wean the mind from earthly love, 
And center it on things above; 
I sought once more my old armchair, 
Within my shady arbor, where 
My mind is more responsive still, 
Unto the musings of my will. 
But soon, so pleasant was the air, 
I fell to nodding in my chair, 
Until I thought that some one spoke. 
And then, I suddenly awoke. 
And glanced around beneath the tree. 
But nought was there, that I could see. 
Some prank, perhaps, as oft before. 
And here I sought my latticed door. 



A Whistling Farmer 251 

And called my wife, but she was gone, 
And then again I slumbered on. 
But ere it was I slumbered long, 
I woke again with something wrong. 
And now a-flutter, like a bird. 
Around my head I thought I heard, 
And still, I sat, — still as a mouse, — 
Maybe a burglar 's in the house. 
And slyly here, I climbed the stair. 
But all was silent everywhere. 
'A dream," said I. No voice I heard. 
Nor e'en the flutter of a bird. 
Some passing fancy touched my brain. 
So back I went to sleep again. 
But ere I had commenced to snore, 
I found myself aroused once more. 
And now, my eyes I opened wide. 
And just before me there, I spied 
The sweetest, cutest little thing, 
That moved before me like a swing. 
And crossed my vision left to right, 
And kept advancing in its flight, 
A moment thus, in drawing near. 
And then, as quickly disappear. 
But soon I'd hear a tiny hum, 
As back in place again it come. 
And ever^^ movement of its flight 
Convinced me that it wished to light. 
And, repeating this, it came so close 
That I could touch it now, almost. 
But this was not my wish or will. 
Meanwhile it kept advancing still, 
For shorter now, and yet more slow. 
Its arc of flight began to grow, 
And kept advancing cautiously, 
Until it lit upon my knee. 



252 A Whistling Farmer 

A fairy! Yes, the sweetest thing 
That ever raised a tiny wing. 
And standing thus before me there, 
Its presence hallowed all the air, 
So grand it was, although so small, 
It seemed to tower over all. 
A spirit of the grand and good 
Before me now serenely stood, 
And bowing low, it softly said : 
**I bring no tidings from the dead. 
But rather to a world of life 
Contending still in endless strife. ' ' 
And I, in turn, I bowed my head, 
And said I'd write what e'er was said. 
And seated now upon my thumb, 
I wrote his message as it come. 



PART n 

To all who live, and breathe and know, 

Desire comes, to high and low. 

And I'd be God, if I but could. 

Just as I know all fairies would. 

For all of ns still hope to rise 

To heights where greater wisdom lies; 

Yet, I grudge not my Master's name, 

Nor do I seek for vulgar fame. 

But merely what all creatures should, — 

A greater field for greater good. 

And then, through space extending wide, 

I'd draw all men unto my side. 

And tune the soul of every man 

To vibrate with the Master's plan. 

And, possessing now this godly part, 

I'd put a song in every heart, 



A Whistling Farmer 253 

And they who weep and they who moan 
Should see my city and my throne, 
For I should draw the veil aside 
And show them what the Lord's denied. 
For why should I remain concealed 
Behind some starry, vaulted shield, 
While all who wear this robe of flesh 
Remain enthralled in such a mesh? 
Yes, were I God I'd show my face. 
And point to my abiding-place. 
And help the weaker ones to rise, 
And wipe the tears from others' eyes; 
And some, I'd smite them with my rod, 
And point them to the living God, 
Or, better still to show my worth, 
I'd build a hell right here on earth; 
And every rascal boasting sin 
I'd run him down and throw him in, 
And let him perish, as he ought, 
For all the meanness he has wrought. 
It seems so long and far away 
For one to wait the Judgment Day, 
That men forget the Master's plan 
By which he thought to govern man. 
And yet He sits upon his throne 
While all this devilment is known. 
And still defers what now should be 
Till some remote eternity. 
My God, to Him I often say, 
Whene'er I kneel me down to pray, 
Canst Thou not see that which is done 
By him who forward leads the Hun, 
And tears our sacred temples down 
To save the passing of his crown? 
And this I've said before his throne, 
But I'm so small and scarcely known 



254 A Whistling Farmer 

The Lord but motions me aside, 

For other ones more deified. 

For see, I move from star to star, 

And note conditions as they are; 

But when I would these things report, 

The Lord, He spurns me out of court, 

And says: 'Begone, you little sprite!' 

And scoffs and scorns with all His might. 

True, He made all this, as well He should, 

And when He made them, all were good, 

But should He see these things to-day, 

He'd wonder at them long, I lay. 

And once of late I sought His court, 

Extremely anxious to report. 

For I had learned of many things 

That flew like thought on tireless wings. 

O'er vast dominions that I found 

Extending all the world around. 

In hidden chambers, where I went 

On secret information bent, 

I heard the arrogant and proud 

Belch forth their torrents long and loud, 

With trembling form and features pale 

That made the weaker members quail. 

And war it was for which they planned, — 

A war embracing every land, 

But God said : ' ' No ; let 's wait awhile. 

And see what comes of it, my child." 

Had I been He, I'd do something 

"With this vain braggart of a king. 

And smaller ones who sought to shirk 

Have sent them toddling off to work. 

And all who dared oppose my laws, 

I'd stop right there and crack their jaws. 

This building cities all around, 

While others come and tear them down, 



A Whistling Farmer 255 

When marching millions take the field 
To stab and maim with clashing steel! 
I tell you what, I'd show my hand 
To all the world in every land. 
Go back along the flight of time, 
And view with me the awful crime 
That's laid in ruins, from their birth, 
The fairest countries of the earth, 
In answer to some jealous cause 
In conflict with the Master's laws. 
Think you I'd wait a single hour. 
If I were He, and had the power. 
Nay, nay, indeed ! I 'd leave such drones 
At best a heap of bleaching bones. 
It makes me shudder when I think 
How this one monarch loves to drink 
The vitals from an only son, 
"Whose manhood yet has scarce begun. 
And well I know, had I my way, 
I'd stop this hollow mockery, 
And ere I slept, I'd lay a scheme 
On every ocean, bay, and stream. 
And sink these monsters all so deep, — 
They 'd find down there eternal sleep ! 
Nor should they float, and drill, and train 
A single battleship again, 
And every gun, and every sword. 
And every fortress that's adored 
Along the coast, to guard the town, 
I'd go right off and tear them down. 
That men might smooth the fields again 
And sow them down with golden grain. 



256 A Whistling Farmer 



PART in 

''I know of life, that prayer's a part, 

For prayer brings comfort to the heart, 

And hope is sweet, though hope should be 

Enthroned within life's mystery. 

But strange it seems that any one 

Should pray for peace that knows the Hun; 

And if I could, this very day, 

I'd change all this without delay, 

And crush the Hun, and order peace, 

And watch all happiness increase 

In every land beneath the sun. 

As should have been since time begun. 

I 've heard these prayers through endless years, 

Poured forth amid a flood of tears, 

In ruined homes where mothers beg. 

And yet the Lord won't move a peg; 

And why He's thus, there is a cause 

That's found within his changeless laws, 

And when I plead with Him to stop. 

Else faith in prayer may lag and drop. 

Till Bibles mold upon their shelves 

And men rely upon themselves, 

Absorbed in thought, I 've heard Him say, 

'Remember well the Judgment Bay.' 

And yet, from what I've heard, alas! 

From invocations as I pass. 

When battles hang upon the brink, 

'Most every one would surely think 

The Lord had taken full command 

Of all the armies in the land. 

One nation sees Him in the lion. 

Another hears Him on the Rhine. 



A Whistling Farmer 257 

Flung to and fro, from hand to hand, 
I hear His name in every land, 
And yet, such devilment prevails 
That wreck and ruin never fails, 
To leave behind the orphan's cry 
That melts to tears the strongest eye. 



PART IV 

*If men could see, as each one should. 
The rich rewards for all that's good, 
And see as well the punishment 
For every law that's ever rent. 
What shouts would ring from shore to shore ! 
And men would praise Him evermore! 
If not for joy, they'd fear His rod, 
And all would join in praising God. 
And hate would die, and love would grow, 
And happiness would onward flow 
As if it were a mighty stream, 
And man would realize his dream 
Of peace on earth, for all mankind. 
Just as the Master has designed; 
And smiles would brighten every face, 
And enmity would bow to grace; 
And such a pleasure life would be 
From age to age, — eternally. 
And caste and cruelty, I'm sure. 
Would slink away from every door. 
And all that 's beautiful and good 
Would flourish as it ever should, — 
For all God's creatures, great and small, 
A heritage for one and all. 
But now, instead of what should be, 
Just look around yourself and see 



258 A Whistling Farmer 

The awful carnage that is wrought, 
Because, forsooth, some one has taught, 
That certain rulers in their line, 
Though heartless scamps, are still divine, 
And have a right to kill and maim 
Without the slightest show of shame, 
While all this loss, and strife and blood. 
Rolls onward like a mighty flood, 
Which but the exercise of thought 
Could in a moment bring to naught, 
The greatest monster time has known 
To occupy an earthly throne! 
And yet the Lord still trots his leg. 
And vows He'll never move a peg. 



PART V 

''And now, maybe, I've been too fast, 
For I recall a frightful past. 
When God had troubles of His own, 
To guard against around His throne. 
And Satan's still a menace there, 
The same as every other where. 
In ages gone, I tell you what, 
He laid a dark and cunning plot, 
And marshaled all the imps of hell, 
And fought with God, until he fell. 
Leastwise, He bound him up so tight, 
And hurled him out amid the night. 
That he remains until this hour, 
A shadow but of former power. 
So God may be, for aught I know. 
More busy yet than men below. 
So much to watch, so much to do, 
In watching imps, and watching you! 



A Whistling Farmer 259 

For not alone upon your earth, 

Is sorrow found supplanting mirth, 

But everywhere that life is found 

The hopes of men are still uncrowned. 

For all of these, the same as this. 

Have sought in vain for mortal bliss, 

And rise and fall, and rise again. 

As do the waves upon the main. 

In some fair land a nation's born, 

And hope springs forward like the mom, 

A city's built along the stream, 

A great metropolis, a dream 

Of boundless beauty, rich and great, 

A monument for any State ! 

And miles and miles, o'er templed hills, 

The lap of wealth her grandeur spills. 

And leaves behind a sea of domes. 

That mark the sight of peaceful homes. 

And gorgeous treasures here are found, 

Where endless pleasures still abound. 

In marble mansions, rich and rare. 

Where vibrant music fills the air. 

And then — But, hark! Whence comes this 

sound, 
That low sweet music has not drowned? 
The hopes of peace, the distant gun, 
The battle's lost, the battle's won. 
The shouts of men, the mote, the mine. 
The long dark circling battle-line. 
And crumbling wall, and lurid flame, 
And dying prayer, and, oh, the shame! 
That God should still be ever nigh, 
And lets a helpless nation die! 
I go my way, and soon return, 
The city's gone, and then I learn 



26o A Whistling Farmer 

Invading armies tore it down, 
And left its rnins on the ground. 
But why enlarge upon the scene, 
For all must know just what I mean? 
And this goes on from year to year, 
The same as you are doing here, 
Like some wild charger, roughly shod, 
In all the universe of God. 
And here the beautiful and good 
Are used as common kindling wood; 
And treasured art and holy shrine 
To these rude heathens less divine 
Than clods that tumble through the air, 
And fall beneath the tiller's share. 



PART VI 

''And now, in time, should this prove true, 
That God has all that He can do, 
Don't trembling stand, like little elves, 
But build your hopes upon yourselves. 
Too many wait for some one else, 
And look upon their grievous welts 
As retribution from on high 
Some one has left in passing by. 
And yet, our God hath ample grace. 
And this is held for every race. 
That closer yet, and closer draws 
Itself around His changeless laws. 
And hope and faith that mortals claim. 
All this should still remain the same. 
For these are gifts from Him above, — 
As tokens of His endless love. 
But wrath and war and greed and lies 
Are thinors that heartless men devise. 



A Whistling Farmer 261 

And often these are so construed, 
Among the ignorant and crude, 
That declarations made by men 
Are those of God revised again. 
And now, I 'm gone, my mission leads 
To other world that vainly pleads 
For that which you are asking here. 
In many lands, from year to year. 
For these, like you, have ever sought, 
But all their search has come to nought ; 
For still they slaughter, maim, and kill, 
The same as you are doing still. 
Because some monster, like your own, 
Sends forth an edict from his throne, 
Outraging all that's just and good, 
In youth, and age, and motherhood, 
And piles with ruins every land. 
To sate the avarice of man. 
But when I come this way again, 
I trust I'll find an endless train, 
Commingling with the blaster's plan 
In one vast Brotherhood of Man. 
And glad I'll be to hear the shout 
That all good men have brought about, 
For things like these, which so defile. 
Must have an ending after while, 
If not, you'll backward go again. 
To caves of rock and hairy men." 



THE PALACE QUEEN 

Will you sip with me, my dearest. 
Will you take a bit of wine ? 

It seems to me, insipid tea 
Is nowhere near so fine. 



262 A Whistling Farmer 

Variety, I've heard it said, 

Is near the spice of life, 
And lovers still may taste at will, 

As well as man and wife. 

I've found a place, the finest place 

Of any one I know. 
Where pleading sighs expect replies. 

My dearest, will you go? 

The Palace Queen's this mansion is. 

The passing eye to please, 
Her lawns are clean and fresh and green, 

And stately are her trees. 

Just like a home, it seems to me. 
Where friends are always near. 

And no one rude, may there intrude. 
To listen^ and to hear. 

With Oriental draperies. 

Her rooms are curtained fine. 

And every room is all a-bloom. 
For callers taking wine. 

Her lights glow softly all night long. 

Her pictures on the wall, 
They seem to walk and laugh and talk 

And beckon unto all. 

And all there is, it gleams afar. 

Profusely strewn around. 
The stairs you mount are like the fount,— 

The envy of the town. 

Here wealth and beauty boweth low 
Kesplendent with the gem, 



A Whistling Farmer 263 

And maid and gent, on pleasure bent, 
Are every one of them. 

And low sweet music floats away 

Voluptuously grand, 
And bow and string their magic fling 

Out from a master's hand. 

Will you sup with me, my dearest, 

Will you take a bit of wine? 
'Twas Paul, you know, who told us so, — 

And he was near divine. 



WHY NOT? 

I 'vE seen the flowers bloom and die, 
And endless seasons passing by. 
But these are naught to me, and why? 
You need not ask, you need not ask. 
For of them all I've no concern. 
Then why should I a m'oment yearn, 
When all and all, they soon return. 
And start again, and start again? 
And Venus there, I've seen her pass. 
Like stubble oft, or withered grass. 
But never once I 've said : ' ' Alas ! ' ' 
For she returns, and still returns. 
As well, the waves that leave the shore 
Wben storms arise and billows roar. 
For these come back and foam and pour 
From day to day, and day to day. 
Then, why not man, when he is gone, 
Return again to greet the dawn. 
And cycle on, and cycle on, 
And on and on, and on and on? 



264 A Whistling Farmer 



FAITH 

Oh, be patient, my soul, 

And it won't be long! 
For it's tick, tick, tick, 

And it's gong, gong, gong, 
Till some grave will close 

With a farewell song. 
Like others who've gone before. 

Let the trembling earth 
And the mountains quake. 

And the clouds grow dark 
And the wild storms break, 

I shall rest as serene 
As some placid lake, — 

A drop in the boundless matrix. 

Sustained by a faith 

That never shall fail, 
I'm weighing my anchor 

And trimming my sail. 
Preparing to weather 

The crash of the gale 
That girdles the ocean of time. 

So, be patient, my soul. 

And it won't be long 
For this tick, tick, tick. 

And this gong, gong, gong. 
Till this grave will ope' 

With a welcoming song. 
And hail, hail the glad day! 



A Whistling Farmer 265 



HELLO ! IN THE MORNING 

When I woke up one morning late, 

And turned me o'er in bed, 
I gently rubbed my eyes a bit 

And then it was I said: 
"Why, hello, Bill!" and "Hello, Bill! 
And hello in the morning!" 

Now Bill, you see, was fast asleep 

O'er in another bed, 
But straightway now he roused himself, 

And unto me he said: 
"Why, hello, Ted, and "Hello, Ted! 
And hello in the morning!" 

And then we two together sang. 

Each one about his girl, 
And while I sang for Mary dear. 

He sang about his Pearl, 
"Why. hello, May," and "Hello, Pearl! 
And hello in the morning!" 

And when we to our breakfast went, 

Selecting each a chair. 
We knelt, and while he prayed for Pearl, 

I prayed for Mary, fair, 
' ' God bless my May ! ' ' and ' ' Bless my Pearl ! 
And bless them in the morning!" 

And with our ladies seated there, 

Before we ate our bread, 
We sang again for Pearl and May, 

And they, for Bill and Ted. 
"God bless my Bill!" and "Bless my Ted! 
And bless them in the morning!" 



266 A Whistling Farmer 



THE LADY I LOVE 

There 's a look on the face of the lady I love, 

And a gleam in her dark blue eye, 
Exalting my hopes unto heaven above. 

And will be till I die. 
And will be till I die, I know. 

And will be till I die ! — 
Exalting my hopes unto heaven above, 

And will be till I die. 



And the flow of her hair's like a beautiful river, 

When soft gentle wavelets go murmuring by, 
And Edith, fair Edith, I 'm loving thee ever. 

And shall be till I die, 
And shall be till I die, I know, 

And shall be till I die! — 
And Edith, fair Edith, I'm loving thee ever. 

And shall be till I die. 



And the hearts of us both they are beating to- 
gether. 
And soul unto soul ever maketh reply. 
Like a storm breaking wild o'er the low-lying 
heather, 
And will be till we die, 
And will be till we die, I know. 

And will be till we die. 
Like a storm breaking T\dld o'er the low-lying 
heather. 
And will be till we die. 



A Whistling Farmer 267 

Then out on some hill that is silent and rounding, 

When the bright lights fade and the night 
comes by, 
I shall find here a peace that is ever abounding, 

If you are resting nigh, 
If you are resting nigh, my dear, 

If you are resting nigh ! — 
I shall find here a peace that 's ever abounding, 

If you are resting nigh. 



TRUE RELIGION 

If you would know my inmost heart, 

Seek not for this among my creeds, 
For these are but a puny part. 

Comparing with my daily deeds. 
Then while I live, close watch me, friends, 

And count my creeds as so much show, 
For on my deeds all hope depends. 

And in the end you'll surely know. 
Yes, then you'll know just what I am. 

If close you scan my hate and love. 
And if I'm one, I'm fit to damn. 

The other seeks a home above. 
For creeds are cold and formal things. 

And made to bend and twist about. 
And often weak, and full of stings. 

All strewn along our earthly route. 
Then go and search the human heart, 

And nail your faith to this alone, 
Nor seek outside, for any part 

That ever may for this atone. 
Atone for that which I may lack. 

While pointing to my written creeds 



268 A Whistling Farmer 

Instead of pay, and paying back 

In honest coin and noble deeds. 
For God will not accept a prayer 

Of one who takes the smallest mite, 
And mark it down, and call it fair, 

And smile approval with delight, 
Unless we pay for all our deeds. 

The rightful measure of their worth, 
No matter how, or what we plead, 

Before we bid adieu to earth. 
Then live this life, whoe 'er thou art, 

A life of justice, true and kind, 
And gain that gladness of the heart 

That elevates the human mind. 



THE ORCHARDS OF OUR YOUTH 

Here lies the place far sweeter than 

Creation ever flung 
'er hill or vale, or mountain peak 

To fascinate the young! 
This orchard site that once we knew. 

Far strewn around so grand. 
How feeble now is all that's left, 

As like this trembling hand ! 
The willow twig and Jonathan, 

The rambo and the spy, — 
Oh, how the heart went out to these, 

In other days gone by! 

For this is where we often went 

Ere we began to roam. 
And sought afar, in distant lands, 

To build ourselves a home. 



A Whistling Farmer 269 

And here we Ve left our labors oft, 

Our appetites to please, 
And out we've gone a-strolling far 

Among these dear old trees, 
The winesap and the tallman sweet, 

The harvest and the green, — 
In longings oft the mind svfings back 

To this remembered scene ! 



But few to-day are left within 

Our orchards o'er the hill, 
And e'en our father's rustic cot 

Deserted lies and still. 
But here and there some roots are found. 

That speak of times gone by. 
And yonder, prone upon the ground, 

A number of them lie: 
The pairmain and the romanite. 

The domini and straw, 
In answer, these have bowed them down 

To God's eternal law. 



And farewell, then, to all of you 

In meekness strewn around, — 
Till we shall meet us once again, 

A-slumber in the ground! 
And let us trust, this slumbering 

Is but another day, 
Where age may not intrude herself 

With blighting and decay. 
The russet, and the maidenblush. 

The cider and the June, 
And Lord, we pray, and hope to find. 

That death is but a boon ! 



270 A Whistling Farmer 



A FOUNDLING 

A STORM came out of the great northland, 

And it moaned as it sadly tossed 
A picture of deatli, with its frosty hand, 

To a wee little baby lost. 

''It's only a foundling/' said one passing by, 

"It's only a foundling frail. 
Why bother myself? for soon it will die, 

There's many another for sale." 

And the night was dark, and the winds were cold. 
And the snow lay deep on the ground, 

And sad is the story, this story of old, — 
"When a wee little baby is found. 

And the barking dog, and the queaking gate. 

And a long, loud rap on the door. 
But the house rose not, for the hour was late ; 

And the storm swept on as before. 

Then a cry was heard, but they spoke no word, 
As it echoed through parlor and hall. 

And, wdth entrance denied, the little one cried. 
In the folds of its coddling shawl. 

And now from a form, that outran the storm, 
There was heard a long wail of pity, 

As the great trees bent and the Storm King sent 
A mournful dirge o'er the city. 



A Whistling Farmer 271 

We all are foundlings that some one has brought, 

To soften the bite of the storm. 
Then open your door, another has taught, 

And rescue some frail little form. 



PROMPTNESS 

Don't wait till to-morrow! 

To-day is the time, 
The future may sorrow. 

The present's sublime. 

Be prompt to the minute, 
And throttle delay, — 

As swift as the linnet 
Aflit by the way. 

For promptness is ever 
The queen of the land. 

And nothing can sever 
The grip of her hand. 

So wishing and waiting 
Is time thrown away. 

When courting and mating, 
To-day is the day. 

For night bringeth slumber. 
And dreams may invade 

And hamper and cumber 
The plans that are laid, 

And change to illusions 

Before it is day 
A mix of confusions. 

In passing away. 



272 A Whistling Farmer 



HERE AND THERE 

While man remaineth here, 
His pleasures and his pains 
Are things within himself; 
But when he goes away 
And hides among the dust, 
Another comes along 
And shapes his destiny. 



A WHISTLING FARMER 

When out along the road one day, 
I heard a whistling farmer say: 
*'I bow before my growing corn. 
And wheat and oats, at eve and morn. 
And thank the Lord for what he's sent 
And then I feel that sweet content 
That farmers yet more often feel 
When bowing down before their meal. 
And when its o'er, my folks all sing, 
And I start out, a-whistling, 
To see if all the stock are fed. 
And every horse has got his bed. 
And pat old Charley on his jowl. 
And lead him out and let him roll. 
And watch the gay old fellow prance 
Among the fillies, Nell and Nance, 
And hail my porkers in their sty 
That watch me when I'm passing by. 



A Whistling Farmer 273 

And play awhile with Dolly's colt, 

And see the little rascal bolt 

Way o'er the hill, around the spring, 

And then come back a-whinnying. 

I visit all the pigs and sows, 

And sheep, and lambs and calves and cows ; 

And while they close around me crowd. 

It makes my heart feel awful proud 

To see the pleasures I must bring, 

Whene'er they hear me whistling. 

For loud they bleat, and bawl and neigh, 

When I go strolling down the way, 

Until the leaders call a halt, 

And turn to look me o'er for salt, 

Or lumps of sugar that I bring. 

When strolling out at evening. 

And all around me here they come. 

These friends of mine, although they're 

dumb, 
And circling close, they hem me in. 
And watch, and wait, and plead again. 
Until I pacify them all. 
By some familiar act or call. 
For I've some dainty for each one. 
That I bestow before I'm done. 
And call their names, and whisper low 
Some words of love before I go. 
And while I ever kindly speak, 
I pat them gently on the cheek 
Before I'm strolling on my way, 
To call again another day. 
And what a pleasure this can bring, — 
I answer all by whistling. 
Across the meadow lands, away 
Where bunnies in the evening play, 



274 A Whistling Farmer 

Along the babbling of the rill, 
That leads me down to Clayton's mill, — 
Where pike are wont to leap and snap, — 
To take a look at Bennie's trap, 
And see if everything is right, 
To lure the fish throughout the night. 
And when I find that all is well, 
I seat myself and rest a spell; 
And ponder over many things 
The tranquil evening hour brings. 
And then, again, for home I am, 
While all around is hashed and calm. 
Save that wild bird 'way o'er the hill, 
That some one 's named the whippoorwill. 
And while I love to hear him sing, 
I can't refrain from whistling. 
And soon, I'm whistling past the barn. 
And on my strolls around the tarn, 
For ducks and geese upon the lake, — 
They love to hear my whistles break. 
For oft they greet me with a quach! 
And flop their wings above their back. 
Or stop and listen, still as mice. 
As if to say: "It sounds so nice!" 
And here I am at home again. 
But all is silent now within, 
Save now and then, my watchful cur 
Sends forth a growl, as I draw near. 
The lights are low; I take a peep, 
And find my loved ones fast asleep. 
And what a scene in that soft glow, — 
I would to God all men might know! 
My wife and little daughter lay. 
While yet asleep, as if in play. 
Our baby's lips enclosed her breast, 
One hand was clasped, and one at rest. 



A Whistling Farmer 275 

'Twas home and motherhood I saw, 
The fruits of labor, love, and law. 
And now my heart beat loud apace. 
And then a smile o'erspread my face. 
But while I looked and sh'd the pup. 
My mouth began to pucker up. 
Until I had to grab the thing, 
To keep myself from whistling. 
And here I opened wide the door, 
And softly stole across the floor. 
And up the winding stair, aglide, 
And in a chamber, long and wide. 
With scarce the semblance of a noise, 
I pause before my sleeping boys. 
And standing prone before them there, 
I bow my head in silent prayer. 
And ask that Frank and Wade and Ben 
May grow at last to useful men. 
And then I tuck the covers in. 
And press their little hands again, 
And leave a kiss on every brow. 
And ere I'm gone I take a vow 
That I will do whate'er I can 
To make of each a noble man. 
And then I sally forth again, 
To bring some sticks of hickory in. 
And split a bunch of kindling wood. 
As every thoughtful farmer should. 
And lay it down beside the stove. 
To help the wife I dearly love. 
And go and lock the henhouse tight, 
To foil the thieves a-prowl by night, 
And see that all the gates are shut. 
And everything in place is put ; 
And turn the power on the mill, 
To pump some water o'er the hill, 



276 A Whistling Farmer 

So all the cattle, when they pass 

Along the pasture, out to grass, 

The whole of them, from last to first, 

May stop awhile and quench their thirst ; 

And be content, at least till noon, 

In these long sultry days in June. 

And while around and 'round I go. 

Some good-night tune I whistle low, 

For there's a gladness in my heart. 

To know that I have had a part 

And planned and worked with all the rest 

That's made this home of happiness. 

And then it is I'm off for bed, 

Since all I have are housed and fed. 

And in the bath I take my seat, 

And bathe awhile my weary feet, 

And lock the house-doors for the night, 

And wind the clock, and turn the light. 

And raise the windows for some air, 

And hang my trousers on the chair. 

And then, a moment, bow my head, 

And hail my wife, at last, in bed. 

But while I plan, and do my part. 

That brings a gladness to my heart, 

So oft I hear my neighbors say 

When I go by from day to day: 

'' That's him out there ; that's old Tom King! 

He makes his mun by whistling. ' ' 

But I don't care what people say, 

I tell you what, these things will pay: 

A kindly word, a whistling tune, 

Will make December mild as June. 



A Whistling Farmer 277 



WHEN WE LIVED ON THE FARM 

When we lived on the farm 

In that long time ago, — 
When we lived on the old-fashioned farm, 

There was much to be learned 

That you all ought to know, 
When we lived out there on the farm. 

There was seed to be sown 

In the spring of the year, 
When we lived on the old-fashioned farm; 

And from morning till night 

There was many a care 
When we lived out there on the farm. 

And we found lots of work, 
And the days seemed so long, 

When we lived on the old-fashioned farm, 
But the air was so pure 
That we all grew up strong, 

When we lived out there on the farm. 

And the pleasures we found 

In that sweet rural life. 
When we lived on the old-fashioned farm, 

I'm recounting them oft 

To my children and wife, — 
When we lived out there on the farm. 



278 A Whistling Farmer 



MIGRATORY MAN 

Not I alone in youth's fair day, 

While onward yet I strolled, 
Not I alone saw Fortune's car 

Before me ever rolled. 
In all the. walks of life, they were, 

Unfolding still their plans, 
And north and south, and east and west. 

In search of distant lands. 
The farmers sought the countries new. 

The miners sought the mine. 
And bade farewell to every tie. 

And left their friends behind. 
For youth must build a castle high, 

And gild its dazzling dome, 
And yet this picture always lies 

A thousand miles from home. 
And so they went, my early friends. 

Lone wandering afar. 
Nor do I know until this day 

Where many of them are. 
And yet, some few of these I've found, — 

Some names I held so dear; 
And these had sought the Western wilds. 

Among the pioneers. 
And some, perchance, were lost at sea. 

And sleep beneath the wave. 
And other ones, for aught I know, 

May fill a pauper's grave. 
And Fortune's car is still in sight. 

And ever will remain, 
And year by year it 's teeming forth • 

Across the distant plain. 



A Whistling Farmer 279 

For youth is still the same to-day, 

As I was in the morn, 
In after years it is, we find, 

Realities are horn. 



THE MEADOW LARK 

As fair as the sunshine, 
As bright as the moon, 

Away, like the winds, — far away, — 
As tranquil as evening. 
Some evening in June, 

The meadow lark, hallows the day. 

A blast from his trumpet, 
A flash from his wing. 

As he mounts like a rocket, so high ! 
What a thrill of delight now 
His lullaby brings. 

As he floats, like a speck in the sky. 

And the tune that he sings. 
How it thrills with delight ! — 

Far sweeter than aught I have heard, — 
As upward and onward 
He wheels in his flight, — 

Is the song of this delicate bird. 

**Away to the wheat-fields!'* 
He calls to his mate, 

"Away to the barley and rye!" 
Away like an arrow 
As swiftly and straight, 

With a tweet, throttle, tweet, passing by. 



28o A Whistling Farmer 

Away o'er the meadow, 
Away o'er the grain, — 

They are seeking a home for a nest, 
Beyond the broad river 
And valley and plain. 

That lie far away to the west. 



DAYBREAK 

The quickening pulse of day comes on, 
The shades of night in sadness flee. 

And so, at last, the gladsome dawn, 
A victor stands o'er land and sea. 

Meanwhile, the hills, with dewy gleams. 
Assistance lend, to help adorn; 

And all the brooks^ and all the streams, 
Exalting spring, to greet the mom. 

Then, too, yon peak, cloudwrapt and weird, 
And every vale, that smiling lies. 

With promptness each, they join the bird. 
That fills with rapture all the skies. 

And thus we see the long, dark night. 
Is chased around the whole of earth, 

In full retreat, and constant flight, 
A vanquished foe, by nobler worth. 

And so we bless the brilliant morn 

With what of hope the soul hath found. 

As when, again, the sun is born, 
That lagging faith may more abound : 



A Whistling Farmer 281 

A faith in every law ordained, 

Though nights may come, and storms may rage, 
Since all of these have been sustained, 

They will be yet from age to age. 

Then let us rest this troubled mind. 
Nor fear the darkness by the way. 

And in the end, we all may find. 
The dawning of another day. 



THE HEIRS 

All wrapt up in his princely pride, 
A man once lived, and then he died. 
And friends he had, afar and wide. 
Declaring he had money. 

And in his tomb of granite stone, 
As costly as the world had known, — 
They laid him down to sleep alone. 
Like others, gone before him. 

And while he slept there in his place, 
All wound around with golden lace. 
His heirs came on, and sought to trace 
Their uncle's ample fortune. 

And o'er the records, here and there, 
With what few days they had to spare, 
They searched the court-house everywhere, 
But nothing was discovered. 

Then up and down the land they went, 
Upon their nervous mission bent. 
For one and all was confident 
That he was awful wealthy. 



282 A Whistling Farmer 

But always still, from eve till morn, 
The trail led back where he was born, 
Around the groves that still adorn 
The onward flowing river. 

And while they closely searched around. 
Among some vacant lots in town, 
At last they said : ' ' We 've surely found 
His box of hidden treasure. ' ' 

But when they pried the boards apart, 
As gladness swept through every heart,— 
All empty now, it made them start. 
For want of any money. 

And yet, down there, some papers lay. 
As yellow as the yellow clay. 
But all the writer had to say: 

''I've squandered every penny. 

"For I conceived ere life was done. 
All men should live and have their fun. 
Nor should they leave for any one 
A single, blessed dollar. 

"And this, to spur them on their way, 
And make them strong, from day to day, 
That none may stop, and idly say: 
'I have some rich relation.' " 

And this was all the writer said 
Before in death he bowed his head. 
Advising all to earn their bread, 
By honest, daily labor. 



A Whistling Farmer 283 

And while they stood around this ring, 
With frowns that disappointments bring, 
Their leader spoke, and said : ' ' By jing ! 
We're like a lot of children." 

And sternly then, in tones sublime 
That ring above this jingling rhyme: 
' ' Come on, my friends, we 've ample time 
To make ourselves a fortune!" 

And straightway, then, they turned about. 
With manhood strong, and lusty shout. 
And home, they went, to take the route 
That leads to independence. 

And wide they scattered all around, 
In lands remote, and country town. 
And traders some, and some a-plow'n', 
In search of peace and plenty. 

And years went by, — full many years, — 
All laden down with hopes and fears. 
And pleasure came, as well as tears, 
But all began to prosper. 

For now they 'd learned that men of state, 
And famous sage, and truly great. 
Not one of these would ever wait 
Another one's possessions. 

And mind you, too, they'd gone to work. 
In factories some, and some to clerk, 
And scarce a thing they'd ever shirk 
That meant accumulation. 



284 A Whistling Farmer 

And plenty came, and bowed him down, 
O'er acres wide, and country town, 
And jewels flashed on every gown 
Of honest occupation. 

But not for them enormous wealth 
That seems to breed a life of stealth, 
And robs its owner of his health, 
A-toiling on forever. 

But just enough, and nothing more, 
A distance safe beyond the poor, 
That none might come and grumble o'er 
The fruitage of their labor. 

And these are all alive to-day, 
And o'er and o'er I've heard them say: 
* ' 'Twas in the gladsome month of May 
When we went hunting money; 

' ' And there we stood, erect and bold, 
All peering down into that hole. 
That never held an ounce of gold, 
For any one's relation. 

''And ragged men stood there in place. 
And youth and age, with anxious face, 
And well-nigh all, we showed a trace 
Of careless dissipation. 

"For heirs, you see, are prone to wait 
And boast them oft and dissipate. 
Expecting much from some estate 
Belonging unto others. 



A Whistling Farmer 285 

''For this old world she hath her ways, 
Like hunting bear in childhood days, 
When every log that rotting lays, 
Seems one, among the forest.'' 

So time went on for every one. 
Much like the rise and setting sun, 
And ere they knew, this race was won, — 
This race for home and pleasure. 

And every year, some time in ^lay. 
When all of Nature seems at play. 
And birds begin to build and lay, 
They have a grand reunion. 

And hunt, and fish, and rest the mind, 
And have their sports of every kind, 
And climb the trails that twist and wind 
Themselves around the mountains. 

And here, among some giant trees, 
Where flowers bloom for busy bees, 
They pitch their tents, and take their ease. 
And laugh about their folly. 

And thank their stars for all the past. 
When follies held them ever fast, 
For since they 've freed themselves at last, 
They glory in their labors. 

And yet each year, they still to-day. 
This game of fortune-hunting play. 
And lead their little tots astray, 
To hunt for hidden treasure. 



286 A Whistling Farmer 

So they may learn this folly too, 
As older ones have come to do, 
That late in life they may not rue 
This nightmare of deception. 

And when a proper place is found, — 
Such as the vacant lots in town, — 
Some grandpa hides beneath the ground 
A box containing something. 

And when the evening dews are damp, 
He moves around among the camp. 
And softly 'neath each hanging lamp, 
He tells of uncle's fortune. 

And little children crowd around. 
From lands remote, and country town, — 
All sleepy, and in nighty gown. 
To hear the evening story. 

And then he takes them on his knee. 
As soberlike as he can be, 
And leads them on, until they see 
This folly of the ages. 

And here his voice is low and soft. 
And there he flings it high aloft, 
And thus it is, for hours oft. 
He seemeth not to worry. 

And now, he's down beside the brook. 
Or with the tots of Bonilook, 
And so he's found in every nook. 
Before the evening passes. 



A Whistling Farmer 287 

And round and round the camp he goes, 
And in the minds of youth he sows 
This story that forever grows, — 
About another's money. 

And late at night he goes to bed, 
When all the sky's a golden red. 
And twinkling stars gleam overhead. 
Presaging pleasant weather. 

And when at last the stars are gone, 
And morning brings the early dawn, 
And shadows flit across the lawn, 
Beneath the shady forest, 

Outringing loud, there comes a cry, 
As children call, and answer, ' * I ! " 
And grandpa comes, with spirits high, 
To lead the grand procession. 

And round him now, with faces bland. 
At least a score of children stand. 
And each one speaks of something grand 
Bequeathed them by their uncle. 

And then he forms them all in line. 
These tots of six, and eight, and nine, 
And bows him down, with gestures kind. 
And marches on before them. 

And down the vale, beside the wood, 
Where once an Indian village stood, 
They find some holes that look so good 
They stop awhile, to parley. 



288 A Whistling Farmer 

But grandpa thinks some wigwam pole, 
Instead their uncle's heaps of gold, 
Has once reposed in every hole 

That marks this ancient village. 

* ' But now, ' ' said he, ' * way o 'er the hill, 
A forest lies, beyond the mill. 
Where, some affirm, are roaming still 
The catamount and panther. 

''And where the beaver builds his dam. 
When streams are low, and nights are calm. 
And where the daring mountain ram 
Leaps wildly o'er the crevice. 

''And like to this, some woodland deep. 
Where torrents rush, and foam and sweep. 
Our kinsman oft, when sound asleep. 
He'd speak about his savings. 

"And friends declare, ere he awoke. 
While dreaming thus, he often spoke. 
About some old majestic oak. 
Outstanding in the open. 

"But when awake, as all had feared. 
No mention of this tree was heard. 
Nor would he say a single word. 
About the distant forest. 

"And now, out there, it seems to me. 
His wealth must lie beneath this tree. 
And should we find it, we'll all be 
As rich as any Morgan. 



A Whistling Farmer 289 

"And come, let's go and search for this, 
That may bestow such lasting bliss, 
On every lad and every miss, — 
And I'll lead on, directing!" 

And on they went, along the way, 
By sliding rocks and banks of clay. 
Until the sun before them lay 
High up, around the zenith. 

But soon this orb, that shone so bright, 
Began to darken from their sight, 
And great huge clouds, as black as night. 
Came bounding o'er the forest. 

' ' A storm, a storm ! ' ' the children cried, 
While booming thunderbolts replied, 
And lightning threw her curtains wide. 
Out o'er the wailing woodlands. 

And while the clouds grew darker still, 
With rain the streams began to fill. 
And soon, they might have run a mill. 
On-sweeping down the valley. 

And high and higher rose the flood. 
Uprooting trees, and bush, and bud, 
All loathsome, dark, and full of mud. 
Commingling in its vortex. 

But soon the storm had passed them by, 
And bright the sun shone in the sky. 
And on they went again, to try, 
To find their uncle's fortune. 



290 A Whistling Farmer 

And now before them gently broke, 
An open park of scattered oak, 
And with a smile, their leader spoke, 
And pointed straight before him. 

And soon they stood beneath this tree, 
That reared its head in majesty. 
And paths led off, as all could see, 
In various directions. 

And on this tree, some signs were found. 
Out-pointing here and there around, 
And one there was that struck the ground, 
Some distance in the open. 

And grandpa walked straight out to this. 
And every lad, and every miss. 
They followed him, with childish bliss, — 
So brightly shone the prospect. 

And here it was, they quickly found, 
A slight depression in the ground. 
And indications lay around 

That some one had been digging. 

And grandpa dropped upon his knee. 
The better thus to better see 
What made this hole beneath the tree 
Way out amid the forest. 

And every child bent down as low, 
All circling in an endless row. 
And all excited, asked to know. 

What grandpa thought about it. 



A Whistling Farmer 291 

''Why, yes, to me it seemeth clear, 
That some one has been digging here. 
And from the indications near, 

It must have been onr kinsman. ' ' 

And gazing long within this hole 
The children thought was full of gold, 
A scene came back, a story old, — 
A story of his childhood. 

And while each tot beneath the tree 
Was all wrapt up in mystery, 
Again he spoke, and said, said he: 
''Now, how shall we divide it? 

''And now, let's see just what you say, — 
All you who came with me to-day, 
And left your friends some miles away, — 
Your friends that love you dearly. 

"And shall we keep the whole of it, 
And proudly live, our friends to twit, 
And not reserve a single bit 

For those we left behind us?" 

And "yes! and yes!" they loudly said, 
"And let them go and earn their bread. 
As did our uncle who is dead. 

And we, who found his treasure." 

And then he hung his head for shame, 
And to his mind a thought there came, 
And each of us are much the same 
Regarding distribution. 



292 A Whistling Farmer 

And while lie stood and mused a spell, 
Loud shouts of joy arose and fell, 
As every child began to tell 

About the things they wanted. 

'^And I shall have my hobby horse, 
That 's what I will ! ' ' cried Harry Morse, 
And Willie, too, ''Why yes, of course; 
And we'll ride out together, 

''And canter, canter down the lane. 
And whirl and canter back again. 
Just like the soldiers do that train, — 
The soldiers in the army." 

And out spoke May, with much delight : 
"Not I to train, and march, and fight; 
But I shall have my diamonds bright, 
And be a perfect lady; 

"And wear the finest furs in town. 
Above my jaunty silken gown. 
And have m.y car to ride around; 
And live a life of pleasure. ' ' 

And so on down along the line. 
Among these tots, from six to nine. 
And each one spoke of something fine 
To gratify their longing. 

Then grandpa rose, and sought his spade 
That near some spreading lindens laid. 
And while his charges round him played, 
He now began his labor. 



A Whistling Farmer 293 

And while he smiled, and turned his head, 
In solemn tones he gently said : 
' ' T\Tio knows but what some luckless dead 
Lies here in peaceful slumber? 

"And yet. perchance, we'd better see 
What lies beneath this sturdy tree. 
And if a million here should be, 

"SVhat gladness that we found it ! " 

And so the hours slipped away. 
And still he delved among the clay, 
While all around the children lay 
And watched his every movement. 

And while, at last, there comes a sound, 
Dull mumbling down among the ground, 
And, ' ■ Grandpa dear, and have you found 
The money, that was hidden?" 

' ' Xot yet, and still, something I Ve struck 
Down here among this sandy muck. 
And if we have some decent luck 
In what lies here before us, 

"It seems to me, this spacious hole, 
So huge it is, it may unfold. 
At least some wagonloads of gold 
For those who need it badly." 

And then there was a wild pellmell. 
From all the merry children fell, 
And this continued quite a spell. 
Exulting 'er their riches. 



294 A. Whistling Fanner 

And while the romping children played, 
Much louder now the grinding spade, 
A hollow sounding noise it made, 
Far down among the gravel. 

And while with care he worked away. 
He upward turned his face to say; 
''Be quiet there, for some one may 
Be near enough to hear us. 

''And if they are. they'll claim, you see. 
This hox and all beneath the tree. 
And drive us off, and luckless we 
Will never get a penny!'' 

And over each and all once more 
A silence fell, as ne'er before, 
For tots, like men, despise the poor 
And ragged clothes and squalor. 

And soon before this silent throng 
A box was seen, some four feet long 
And deep and wide and awful strong. 
And nailed as if forever. 

And grandpa rose and softly spoke. 
In whispers low, "It's solid oak. 
And my! 'twill take a giant stroke 
To rend the box asunder. 

*'And quickly, now, my little Max, 
Run yonder, son, and bring the ax. 
And I'll give these some awful whacks, 
And open out this treasure." 



A Whistling Farmer 295 

And once again he sought the pit, 
And bending low, he smiled a bit, 
For all the past, he thought of it, 
When he was like the children. 

And with his ax, he'd brought along. 
He struck these boards so hard and strong. 
They sounded like some distant gong, 
'Way off among the forest. 

And while he chopped and mauled away, 
Down there among the clammy clay, 
The children all, I heard them say: 
*'Dod bless our dear old uncle!'' 

And soon, he chopped his way inside. 
And through this hole, now long and wide, 
A metal box the children spied. 
All solid, locked, and rusty. 

And over this he worked and pried. 
And sought to lift it out, he tried. 
And near it was his strength denied 
This final consummation. 

But when at last he brought it out. 
They all agreed, beyond a doubt, 
A chest like this, so huge and stout, 
Must hold a world of money. 

But when the lid lay open wide, 
A shock sprang out to wound their pride. 
And one and all, the children cried, 
* * Our uncle has deceived us ! " 



296 A Whistling Farmer 

For there, before their anxious look, 
While one and all a-tremble shook, 
Alone they saw a single book, 
Of ponderous proportions. 

But unto them, to stay their rage, 
Their leader read the title page. 
And said: ''Perchance, some learned sage 
Has left you this, a treasure." 

And then, assuming gestures bold, 
To soothe their fears, he stood and told. 
Of others who had found no gold. 
And yet, some priceless papers. 

For these, although of simple kind, 
They so appealed unto the mind. 
They broke the cords that often wind 
Themselves around the shiftless. 

*'And so with you, in years to come, 
This book, maybe, you'll often thumb, 
And make of it your closest chum. 
And bless the day you found it. 

''For it may yet contain more gold. 
When riper years for jou unfold, 
Than any chest could ever hold. 
Regardless of dimensions. 

' ' For this may teach each one of you 
The ways of life you should pursue. 
And take your hands, and lead you through 
The pleasures of existence. 



A Whistling Farmer 297 

"And point the right among the wrong, 
And bid you shun the wicked throng, 
And touch your heart with magic song, 
And make your life worth living. 

**For wealth," said he, "in time grows old, 
Like sparkling gems and tinkling gold ; 
At least this much we're often told 
By many w^ho have tried it." 

And when these things the children heard, 
Deep silence in their midst appeared, 
Nor was there one who had a word 
To offer in rebuttal. 

And here, well-nigh, our story ends, 
Excepting yet some few amends. 
On which a romance oft depends, 
A-rounding at the finish. 

'Twas evening now, and westward far 
Soft lay the clouds, a crimson bar, 
And just above, the evening star 
Shone forth in all her splendor. 

An evening such, the tender mind, 
In after years, is apt to find. 
Some incident has come to wind 
Around the heart forever. 

And grandpa now with pleasure shook, 
"While over all he cast a look, 
And high above, he held his book, — 
This wondrous book of knowledge. 



298 A Whistling Farmer 

And while he stood and gently bowed, 
In pleasant tones he spoke aloud, 
And of his work, he felt as proud 

As though he'd found a million. 

For while deception seems unkind, 
Sometimes it helps to free the mind, 
"When youth is yet so much inclined 
To wander from its moorings. 

And thus we've sought to plant the truth, 
Within this field, that man pursueth 
In early life, and tender youth. 

For truth should be encouraged. 

For on this rock, the great and small 
And high and low and one and all 
May nobly rise, or lowly fall. 

Contingent on their pleasure. 

And finis all, and here we rest. 
With this implanted in the breast, 
That none through life may be distressed. 
Concerning means and money. 



KATE SHELLY 

Above the noises born of earth, 

And thunderbolt and fire, 
A hand was thrust, and voices cried: 

''Beloved, come up higher." 
And then, a softly beaming light 

Rose gently o'er the plain. 
Illuminating all the night, — 

So radiant its train. 



A Whistling Farmer 299 

And music, from an unseen band, 

With vibrant sweetness played, 
Which swept with rapture all the land, 

In honoring the maid. 
Kate Shelly 's crossed the stream again, 

That dark and stormy river, 
And left behind the haunts of men 

And Honey Creek forever. 



MY HEART AND I 

This ever-patient little heart of mine 
A stranger seems to sleep and rest. 

And pray, what godly impetus divine. 
First gave thee motion in my breast? 

Whose hand was it that sent thee bounding. 
Now to, now fro, within this narrow cell? 

Whose voice that spoke, in tones astounding? 
I 've sought and sought ; but none can tell. 

Ah, silent still, and speak but once to-day, 
I'd treasure well the words you spoke, 

Ere thou, upon thy dark and toilsome way, 
Resum'st again thy noiseless stroke. 

And how can pleasures gild thy dungeon walls, 
Deprived of all this world of light. 

While yet thy pulsing motions rise and fall, 
Surrounded by eternal night? 

Chained to thy post, thy station still denies 
To thee and thine the light of day, 

While all this world of beauty round thee lies, 
As fragrant as the month of May. 



300 A Whistling Farmer 

And still, no helper ever comes to take thy oar, 
And bid thee rest upon the stream. 

Nor can thy vision glimpse the distant shore 
Where changing landscapes glint and gleam. 

And yet, thou art the fountain source, I know, 

Of all these organs I possess. 
But, ere this blood of mine began to flow, 

I falter, even with a guess, 

Why one should ever live and thrive and grow, 
Without a heart or lung or breath. 

Unless, maybe, the Lord has willed it so 
That we live onward after death. 

For if it were that we once blithely grew 
A nerveless, senseless, thoughtless brain, 

In reason's realm, it seems there's nothing new, — 
And why should one not live again? 

Meanwhile, thou art my servant yet each day. 
And still my life is in thy hands. 

And I, like thee, must grope along the way 
Amid life's ever-changing sands. 

And while I see afar with mortal eyes. 
The greening fields that ever come and go. 

And while each height is still a grand surprise, 
The Great Beyond I may not know. 

But these are transient, — all these passing scenes 
That rise and fall like day and night; 

The one great problem yet, whate'er it means, 
Lies hidden still beyond my sight. 



A Whistling Farmer 301 

And still, my little heart, go ever on and on, 
In silence here within my longing breast; 

Beyond this darkness yet may lie the dawn 
For all, of sweet and tranquil rest. 



THE SOLDIER'S FAREWELL 

''I'm going to the army, Mag, 

Behold my uniform ! 
Our reg'ment now is all complete. 

We're marching in the mom. 
It's awful, dear, I know it is. 

The love for you I bore. 
But God has so created me 

I love my country more. 
I went this morn to watch the drill 

Upon the village green. 
And hundreds more, they followed me, 

To gaze upon the scene. 
Out where our flag was flying, Mag, 

Above the army post. 
And there I heard the noisy guns 

On down along the coast. 
And when I saw our enemies 

Come stealing down the bay, 
My spirit so possessed me, dear, 

I could no longer stay. 
For soon, I heard the smaller arms, 

And saw the firing-lines. 
And long the clang of battle rang 

Among the open pines. 
Yes, I'm going to the army now. 

Our honor to sustain, 
And years may pass for us, alas! 

Ere I return again. 



302 A Whistling Farmer 

Go, call the children, — will you, dear' 

From out their youthful play; 
I want this picture in my heart 

When I am far away; 
For we may never meet again 

Around the social board, 
So fraught with danger is the life 

That cherishes the sword." 



And then a scene before me stood, 

That words can never tell, 
For while his wife and children wept, 

The soldier said farewell. 
I've seen him on the picket line. 

And out upon the field. 
And like a* wall of stone he stood 

And grasped his trusty steel ; 
And often, too, I've seen him sent 

To execute some plan, — 
Dash forward in the face of death 

To meet his fellow-man. 
And when the clang of battle slept, 

I saw his mortal wound, 
A smile upon his dying brow, 

Upon the frozen ground. 
And now he lies at Arlington, 

Among the noble slain ; 
For those who wait and watch for him, 

He'll ne'er return again. 
Pie '11 ne'er return again, alas! 

I hasten to reply: 
The spirits of our worthy dead 

Are always passing by. 
They cheer us on our lonely way 

Across the vale and hill, 



A Whistling Farmer 303 

And while we think of yonder tomb, 

They're always with us still. 
They live in sculptured marble now, 

And decorate our walls, 
And seem to press our hands again 

Whene'er the evening falls. 
And I, as well, I, too, avow. 

What he has said before, — 
Not that he loves his fam'ly less, 

But loves his country more. 
While navies build, and armies drill. 

And endless forts expand, 
Here lies the refuge of our hopes: 

The love of native land. 



THE COMING AGE 

To those who wait as yet 

The bourn of time unseen,— 
To break the bonds at last 

Of hidden birth, I mean, — 
Sleep on awhile in peace! 

And let the valleys green ; 
The world is growing fast 

In grandeur, day by day. 

Sleep on, wee mite, sleep on ! 

Till war's alarms are o'er. 
And navies disappear 

From every hostile shore, 
And all this strife to-day. 

In time, will be no more. 
Among the many nations 

Of the world. 



304 A Whistling Farmer 

Sleep on awhile, sleep on! 

Until that coming age, 
When truth, and truth alone 

May grace the virgin page; 
While honor stalks abroad 

To greet the worthy sage. 
And justice is proclaimed 

Supreme in every land. 

Sleep on awhile, sleep on! 

Till caste has been forgot, 
And lustful men, as such. 

Are left to mold and rot. 
And heartless greed for gold 

In time will serve them not,- 
The avaricious ones 

That seek alone for gain. 

Sleep on awhile, sleep on! 

And see the law's delay, 
Like other things now past, 

This, too, must pass away ; 
And love will take the place 

Of all of this some day, 
And man will truly love 

His neighbor as himself. 

Sleep on awhile! Some day 

All men will see the light ; 
For other ones have seen 

Beyond the darksome night, 
The dawning seemeth near, 

The morning opens bright. 
For those who yet must come 

To occupy our place. 



A Whistling Farmer 305 



THE THINGS THAT LIVE 

Who aims at glitter and display, 

And leaves no valued work behind, 
All this must find a swift decay. 

Too weak to hold the sober mind. 
No lessons stamped upon the heart, 

No guidepost left along the road. 
No helping hand, to bear a part 

In lessening our weary load. 
So all we write, whate 'er the cost. 

Unless it points to something good, 
All this I count among the lost, — 

It so has been, and always should. 



AT REST 

We had a little babe 

That was all our own, 
Her flesh, our flesh. 

And bone, our bone! 
The sweetest little child, — 

Just about so high, 
That played in our home 

Till death came by, 
grave, grave, grave, by her tombstone, 
Way down in the earth 

Where she long must lie! 
grave, grave, grave, by her tombstone ! 
And this took our baby 

When death came by. 



3o6 A Whistling Farmer 

And gone is the babe 

That was all our own. 
She's gone to her rest 

Near the Great White Throne. 
Our own darling child 

With her soft brown hair, 
And all we have left 

Is her little armchair. 
And hope, hope, and hoping for ever, 
That she's found a rest 

In the Master's love. 
And trust, trust, and trusting his promise. 
And we'll find our baby 

In heaven above. 



DISSATISFIED 

A WISH Cometh often, 

Aflame with desire, 
Some longing to soften 

Our passions afire. 
And, oh, to be master 

Of all we survey ! 
And laugh at disaster 

And smile at decay; 
And bask us forever 

In gladness untold, 
As like to some river 

That never grows old ! 
And, oh, for a pleasure 

That never will cloy, — 
Some blessing, a measure. 

That none can destroy, 
Some guidepost directing 

Our footsteps along, 



A Whistling Farmer 307 

Like music connecting 

Our hearts with a song. 
To sleep here, to slumber 

In sweet ecstasy, 
Where none may encumber 

The beautiful way, 
Giver of Pleasures, 

We look unto thee, 
Bestowing Thy treasures 

So lavish and free! 



BEYOND 

In our moments, ever fleeting. 

Sweet the memories they tell. 
Still advancing and repeating: 

''All is well!" and "AU is well!" 
All beyond this darksome river. 

All beyond this fleeting day. 
In the Master's presences ever. 

Blessed for all eternity. 
All beyond this grave before us. 

All beyond this darksome night, 
Afar, above, beneath, and o'er us 

There may be yet a flood of light. 
On beyond our every trouble, 

On beyond our every grief, 
Beyond this life, beyond this bubble. 

Now so fragile and so brief. 
On beyond this wild confusion, 

On beyond this couch of sod, 
Disillusioned, oar illusions, 

In the bosom of our God. 
On beyond these sore distresses. 

On beyond this throbbing brain, 



3o8 A Whistling Farmer 

Swept within His glad caresses, 

There to evermore remain. 
On beyond this constant longing, 

On beyond this endless fear, 
Ever thronging, ever thronging 

All around us year by year. 
On beyond our every sorrow, 

On beyond our every tear. 
Over yonder, some to-morrow 

May be waiting for us here. 
On beyond this sickness, raging, 

On beyond this death we die, 
God, the Father, may be staging 

Other plays that glorify. 



THE WRECK AT EDEN, COLORADO ^ 

Ever guarding the mountain pass. 

And watching the plain, alert and fleet, 
Comes the hour of death, 

With its noiseless feet. 
Stealing along the wreck-strewn coasts 
Of time, the border lands of mystery. 

Go break the news to Pueblo, 
Of life's ever-changing ebb and flow, 

Where matron, and maid, and man at the lever 
Went down to their death 

In that wild-plunging river. 
In a low-lying valley. 
Adjacent the fountain, 

*At the time this took place, in so far as the loss of life is 
concerned, it was said to have been the greatest railroad wreck 
in the United States. No less than one hundred and seven 
persons lost their lives by the washing away of a small bridge 
at Eden, Colorado, a few miles out from the city of Pueblo. 



A Whistling Farmer 309 

A stream flowing down 

From the steppes of the mountain, 

There is death in the wreckage, 

The flood, and the sand, 
And a thousand hearts are bleeding 
For the loss of life at Eden, 
A lonely little station there 

Along the Rio Grande. 

And the train was lost at Dry Creek, 

A place where one can die quick. 

Should troubles multiply 

And rend the heart asunder. 

And to the youth of tender age, 

And to the grandsire, and to the sage. 

And to the suicide, a haven. 

For here 's a perfect grave in 

The crazy bridge, and rushing deep, 

And awful plunge, and frightful leap, 

To death in the wreckage. 

The flood, and the sand, 
And a thousand hearts are bleeding 
For the loss of life at Eden, — 
A lonely little station there 

Along the Rio Grande. 

Twas on a stormy August eve, 

And the date was number seven. 
And the train that hurried on the way 

Was the flyer, number Eleven, 
On a long and tedious journey 
To the Louisiana Fair. 
But the story's soon forgotten, 
Of a shaky bridge that's rotten. 
And the human trap at Dry Creek, 
The place where one can die quick. 



310 A Whistling Farmer 

In a splintered mass of twisted beams, 
And sobs, and moans, and muffled screams, 
In the waters of tbe torrent, 

And the wreckage, and the sand. 
And a thousand hearts a-bleeding 
For the loss of life at Eden, 
A lonely little station there 

Along the Rio Grande. 

'Twas in the darksome night time, 
And seemingly, the right time. 
When pleasures reign supreme. 
With love and hope content, 
The flashing eye, and beaming face. 
And pose of ease and cultured grace; 
Inside the romping children played. 
No thought of danger, undismayed. 
Outside, the vivid lightnings flash. 
Then lo ! a shock, a scream, a crash. 
And death in the wreckage, 

The flood, and the sand, 
And a thousand hearts are bleeding 
For the loss of life at Eden, 
A lonely little station there 

Along the Rio Grande. 

And some were out for pleasure. 

And some were going home. 
With anxious friends awaiting 

The train that ne'er would come. 
Not a warning from the darkness. 
Not a message from the wire. 
And sweeping down the waters high, 
The bridge was wrecked and gone, 
And swiftly on her journey bent. 



A Whistling Farmer 311 

The flyer swept along; not a flagman, 

Not a signal, not a breath, 
Not the swinging of a lantern 

Across the road to death; 
Not the blowing of a whistle. 

Not the ringing of a bell. 
And so silently and swiftly, 

And not a soul to tell 
Of the waters dashing onward, 

And the wreckage, and the sand. 
And a thousand hearts are bleeding 
For the loss of life at Eden, 
A lonely little station there. 

Along the Rio Grande. 



CARMEL BY THE SEA 

There is majesty in motion, 

There is poetry in pose, 
The storms upon the ocean. 

And the star that ever glows ; 
But naught that I have ever seen 

Is so beautiful to me 
As ripples o'er thy coral strands 

Sweet Carmel by the Sea. 

I know of mountains miles in height, 

With pinnacles so bold. 
No eagle ever dares a flight 

Where stormy blasts unfold ; 
But why should I revert to these ? 

My dearest, let us flee, 
Adown the paths that wind around 

Sweet Carmel by the Sea. 



312 A Whistling Farmer 

Let others seek the Arctic seas, 

Or dare the dismal mines, 
Give me my flowers and my bees 

And California wines, 
And never-ending pleasures, dear, 

Like children in their glee. 
That romp along this merry coast, 

Sweet Carmel by the Sea. 



THE FLEETING DAY 

The fleeting day goes by 
And yet we labor on. 
To balance up the book 
Of wistful memories; 
And then, forgetting all 
The worries of the world, 
"We list the plaintive call 
That all around us lies, 
And find a drearaless sleep 
Of endless slumbering, 
And never wake to tell 
Of mysteries beyond. 



THE HOME 

The home is where the heart is, 

And where no homes abound, 

No heart is strong enough 

To bridge the dismal void. 

And the home, it speaks of childhood, 

And the toylands of youth, 



A Whistling Farmer 313 

And brings to mind again 
The cradle songs of old, 
When mother used to sit 
Low crooning in the room, 
Above her needlework. 
And the home, it speaks of love, 
And points us back again 
To our departed friends, 
And throws upon the screen 
A host of memories 
That time cannot efface. 
But later on in life 
The home speaks louder still. 
And never fails to cheer 
The heart of every man. 
And here, around his hearth. 
Made sacred unto him 
By every tie that binds, 
A mighty host he is 
Of superhuman strength. 
And should the clouds of war 
Rise darkling o'er the way. 
And mutterings be heard 
From some relentless foe, 
He'll need no clanging drum 
To stir the blood within 
His patriotic breast. 
And so, it's not for him. 
His count ry calls aloud 
When danger seemeth near. 
For in the darksome night. 
While others slumber on, 
He leaves his couch behind, 
And hastens to the front, 
And vows to save his ho-me, 
Or die a noble death 



314 A Whistling Farmer 

Upon the field, of strife. 
And here, we have the man, 
The grandest man of all, 
Though humble he may be, — 
The man who loves his home. 



POESY 

And who art thou, affirming oft, 

That poesy is dead? 
These thoughts of grandeur, flung aloft, 

Have these forever fled? 
And does this sunset flash in vain 

His radiant displays, 
And all this gorgeous evening train 

Belong to other days? 
And is this statue but a stone 

Dragged from its resting-place. 
Devoid of every touch and tone, 

Kegardless of its grace? 
If so, then beauty must have flown 

Beyond the reach of all, 
And weeps in solitude, — alone, — 

The sadness of her fall. 



CAPITOL HILL STATUE 

DENVER 

Grim warrior, on thy pedestal, 

What enemies of late. 
Look longingly from distant lands, 

A menace to our State! 



A Whistling Farmer 315 

What secret chambers canst thou see, 

Where plots are being laid 
By those whose open friendliness 

Is constantly displayed? 
And guard thou well our endless seas 

With vigils, day and night, 
And keep thy sword and rifle clean, 

And all thy cannon bright. 
If aught should ever come to cause 

Thy watchfulness alarm, 
Our factories are ready now; 

The plowman on his farm 
Can leave to others all he has. 

His ripened fields to mow, 
And join the flag he loves so well, 

To meet a common foe. 
For everything that we possess 

Has come to us through tears 
And orphans made on battlefields 

These some four hundred years. 
And in defense of these we stand, 

And every man a host, 
One hundred million strong at least 

We are, from coast to coast. 
So keep thy trusty rifle still 

Securely in thy hand. 
Prepared, with might, to stand and fight 

For this your native land! 



COMPENSATION 

What matter tide and time, 
And anxious years a few, 
If one has found in life 
A noble friend or two ? 



3i6 A Whistling Farmer 



MY DAELING JIM 

There's a sadness felt 
In the stifling air, 
And the songster weeps 

On his homing limb, 
And the clouds lie dark 
In the distance there. 
And naught have I heard 

From my darling Jim. 

And green is the grass 
In that distant land 
Where the miles sweep on 

O'er a vast expanse, 
And the vales are sweet 
And the hills are grand, 
In the vineclad fields 

Of that sunny France. 

And the time was morn, 
And the dawning light. 
Like a gleam of hope, 

In the foreground lay, 
And the lines led off 
To the left and right, 
As the sun broke forth 

On that fateful day. 

For lo ! in the stillness 
That hovered around, 
An ominous shot 
From a distance fell. 



A Whistling Farmer 317 

And a host lay there 
On the crimson ground, 
All silent in death 

From a bursting shell. 

And the noon came by, 
And the lines grew thin. 
As the wavering fields 

Were captured and lost. 
And the contest rang 
With a frightful din. 
Like an angry wave 
On the ocean tossed. 

And the forts they took ! 
And the forts they lost ! 
In many a charge 

Of the clanging steel, 
And backward and forward 
The armies were tossed, 
Like a ball that's swept 

O'er a struggling field. 

And bold in the face 
Of carnage and death, 
One soldier, there was, — 

And I thought of him, 
And my heart stood still 
And I held my breath. 
So fearful I was 

For my darling Jim. 

And the day wore on. 
And the evening came. 
And the shot still fell 
Like a storm of hail, 



3i8 A Whistling Farmer 

And watching, at last 
My mind grew dumb, 
At a harvest of death 
Where none ever quail. 

And the moon rose high 
O'er that ghastly scene, 
And a brightness flung 

For many a mile, 
And searching, she found 
On the grasses green, 
Full many a mother's 

Darling child. 

And they called each name, 
And reckoned the spoil, 
Of those who had veered 
To the left and right, 
Ere the army slept 
From its frightful toil, 
As well as it could 
Through the passing night. 

And many a comrade 
Was called and passed, 
As friends stood there 

With a silent glance. 
But their hopes all fled. 
And their friends at last. 
To the vineclad hills 
Of that sunny France. 

And the morning broke 
O'er the fields once more. 
And the dead lay heaped 
In their trenches there, — 



A Whistling Farmer 319 

And my darling Jim, 
In a pool of gore, 
From a gunshot wound 
In his curly hair. 



OUR OLD HOME 

Sue, I'm looking o'er our farm again; 

Where once we worked so hard, 
O'er things that both of us enjoyed. 

That's now forever barred. 
In passing o'er the rising ground 

Along the southern road, 
I watched the billow of the fields 

That I had often mowed. 
And called to mind a host of things 

And pleasures that have flown, 
In meditation, as I walked 

Along the road alone. 
How time can wreck our fondest hopes, 

And blind our eyes with tears! — 
We find at last in looking back 

Along the flight of years. 
I passed the garden on my way. 

And turning down the lane, 
I thought I heard the boys at play 

Beyond the hills again. 
'They're playing ball," I said aloud, 

So lovely was the day. 
But when I spoke, all merriment 

Was quickly swept away. 
And still I waited long to hear, 

Once more that joyful sound. 
In listening attitude intent, 

While gazing on the ground. 



320 A Whistling Farmer 

And waiting thus, it seemed to me, 

So many things appeared, 
To break upon my listening ears, 

That I had often heard. 
'Way off among the southern woods, 

I heard the hooting owl, 
And from the monarch of his flock 

The clarion of the fowl; 
And laughing children on their way 

A-chatter down the road, 
Just like our own that went to school. 

So happily they strode; 
And out among our maple trees. 

The songster in his glee; 
And dashing homeward from the fields. 

The faithful little bee. 
And to my senses, now alert. 

Among the sounds of morn, 
One sound there was I '11 ne 'er forget, — 

The sound of planting corn. 
Glad sounds for us in days gone by. 

The rural world employs, 
But these were not the sounds I sought,— 

The playgrounds of the boys, 
I walked out to the northern gate, 

And looked the pasture o'er. 
But nought was there to indicate 

"What I had heard before. 
I called aloud, but called in vain. 

For there was no reply, 
'Twas but an echo of the past 

I heard, in passing by. 
And north and south and east and west, 

I rambled o'er the farm. 
And oft I 'd stop to view some spot 

That held a magic charm. 



A Whistling Farmer 321 

And to each field I said farewell, 

And stroked its furrowed brow, 
And promised all I'd soon return. 

Among the dust, I trow. 
Our fields and lanes and lines of fence 

The same resemblance bore, 
But other things we left behind, — 

I found they were no more. 
The spring, where we had often drunk, 

And bathed our fevered brow, 
Was gone, like many of our friends, 

I cannot tell you how. 
As well the home, in which we lived. 

That saw our children's birth. 
Had long since gone, like other things, 

To mingle with the earth. 
And, too, our barn of sturdy oak, 

A refuge from the storm, 
And these I sought, but all I found 

Was there in spirit form. 
But in their place, two others stood. 

As strongly built as they, 
But oh ! the thoughts that filled my heart, 

I falter here to say. 
I walked up to the house and rapped, — 

Loud rapping on the door, — 
A lady came and bowed to me 

I never saw before. 
And when I took a seat inside 

And cast my eyes around, 
I noticed, with a sweeping glance. 

The lady sternly fro^vned. 
**I beg your pardon, lady friend; 

I used to live out here, 
And every tree and every shrub 

Hold memories still dear. 



322 A Whistling Farmer 

You see, misfortune came to us 

And wrecked a lovely home, 
And now, that we are growing old 

And find ourselves alone, 
The mind goes back to other years^ 

That youth can never feel. 
For softer grows the aging heart, 

As fire softens steel." 



DREAMS 

There are all kinds of dreams 

That we meet with in life, 
And some that are dripping 

Like the blood from a knife. 
There's the dreamer of the night, 

And the dreamer of the day. 
And thousands who are dreaming 

Their whole lives away. 
And many of these dreams 

Have never yet been told. 
Those dreams where the wildest 

Of our passions will unfold. 
Enshrined, they are floating 

Out yonder in the sky. 
Some vision of a lover that 

Will never, never die. 
And manj^ of these dreamers 

They revel with delight. 
In telling of the dreams they 

Were dreaming in the night. 
And yet, I love the dreamer most 

That's dreaming all the day, — 
Who sees bej^ond the misty years 

His little ones at play, 



A Whistling Farmer 323 

And a-smiling in the eve, 

And a-smiling in the morn, 
The dreamer who is dreaming 

Of the future yet unborn. 
And a greeting for his neighbor, 

As he drives along the lane. 
For the sowing and the reaping 

And the harvest of the grain. 
And a cottage in the valley. 

And the lowing of the kine, 
And the bees a-toting honey 

From the blossom of the vine. 
And the money's in the bank, 

And the fodder's in the barn, 
And a helper who is handy 

With her needle and her yarn. 
There's a pleasure in this dream, 

And it has a lasting charm, 
Overflowing, like the measure 

That is found upon the farm. 
So the sweetest dream of all : 

For it drives away the gloam, — 
Is the dreaming of the family, — 

And the dreaming of the home. 



THE ONE TO CHOOSE 

With men of strength and character, 

And morals in their place, 
It's not a case of rarity. 

To build a noble race. 
For men are most, and most of all. 

The stamina of life. 
Supreme, within this sacred call, 

Much more than any wife. 



324 A Whistling Farmer 

Then look to him, ye maidens fair, 

And choose him as above, 
And let not some deceiver share 

The bounties of your love ; 
For, know you not, the male is still 

The most important part? 
And only one of stren^h can fill 

The gladness of your heart. 



THE BIRD 

Who sings to me 
When I'm alone? 

The little bird. 
Far sweeter seem 
Its mellow tones 

Than aught I've heard. 

As when I oft 
My rambles take. 

The birds are near. 
And hail me gladly 
Down the brake, 

From year to year. 

Fond memories 
I have, so dear, 

When yet a boy; 
And then I often 
Lingered near, 

With childish joy. 



A Whistling Farmer 325 

For oft it was, 

Some grand old hymn 

Escaped their throat, 
And heaved the breast 
And quaked the limb, 

To shade the note. 

And yet they labor 
With their song, 

As all may see, — 
With hopes and fears 
The whole day long, 

The same as we. 

The coldest blast 
That sweeps the plain, 

They dare to meet. 
And scorn the tempest 
Loud amain, 

With barren feet. 

The Lord, no doubt. 
Hath sent the bird 
A mother's love. 
He whispered, and 
She doubtless heard 
His voice above. 

Reposing all 

Her trust in Him, 

He keeps her warm. 
While yet her chamber's 
But a limb 

Amid the storm. 



326 A Whistling Farmer 

And in the spring 
She mounts the stage, 

To find a home 
Among the deepest 
Foliage 

That forms a dome. 

For well she knows 
That shortly death 

Will hush her song, 
And stay her heart, 
And still her breath 

In silence long. 

And so she builds 
Herself a nest. 

And hums her lay, 
And all the world 
Has doubtless guessed 

What she must say. 

**The Lord hath given 
Unto me 

The seeds of life, 
Behold the harvest 
That's to be 

Awaits the knife.*' 

I saw her mate, 
Athwart the sky, 

In swift pursuit 
And turned my head 
In passing by. 

In silence mute. 



A Whistling Farmer 327 

They found a place 
Beyond the hill 

To build their nest, 
Above some gently 
Flowing rill — 

You know the rest. 

YouVe seen the eggs 
That she has laid, 

And heard the cry 
Of little fledgelings 
In the shade, — 

And so have I. 

It's done, — the great 
Transaction's done! 

Earth gives applause 
From age to age. 
And sun to sun. 

Unto these laws. 



MY FRIEND 

For every patient soul 
Who calmly bides his time, 
All seasons have their June, 
When brilliant flowers bloom 
Among the wintry blast; 
And greening fields protrude 
Themselves before his sight. 
And pleasant songs come back 
From long departed birds. 



328 A Whistling Farmer 

And for eacli passing cloud, 
Portentous with despair, 
He has a winsome smile 
That drives the gloom away. 
And leaves an impress deep 
On every human heart. 
And while some passing storm 
Makes dreary all the day, 
And wailing winds moan round 
His solitary home, 
Attuned to other times. 
His vision leaps the bounds 
That lay around his feet, 
And soaring high above 
The worries of the world. 
He sees the gentle spring 
Peep o'er the distant hills. 
And hears the bleating lamb 
Upon the meadows near. 

And oft I've heard it said: 
**For him there is no night, 
When shadows overcast 
The gladsome hearts of men, 
And leave them stranded there 
"Without a gleam of hope. 
And for the frowns of earth 
That bar so oft the way 
To pleasures strewn around, 
He seemed to have a host 
Of pleasant company 
That ever spoke aloud 
Of better times to come. 

And while he moved along 
Upon the tide of time, 



A Whistling Farmer 329 

One thought possessed him much, 

And this I've heard him oft 

Repeating o'er and o'er, 

As though he would impress 

Upon the minds of all 

The values that exist 

In every passing hour. 
*'It's the rising and the setting 

Of the sun," he'd say, 
*'And twinkling star. 

And changing moon, 

Until the reaper comes. 

And bids us, — every one, — 

Return unto the dust." 

And this was years ago. 
When childhood was no more. 
And we had drawn apart, 
Each one upon his way, — 
And he, to write his books, 
And I, to delve away. 
My life upon the farm. 
And while we stood upon 
The parting of the way. 
He gently bent him down 
And whispered in my ear, 
And told me of the plans 
And labors of his life. 

And from that very day 
Ambition wrought in him 
A deep and lasting change, 
That gripped his very soul. 
And chained him, like a slave, 
To one eternal task. 



330 A Whistling Farmer 

And soon lie left his home, 
And sought for quietude 
Among the distant hills, 
And here he reared alone 
This cabin in the wood, 
And gave his manhood strong, 
And all the passing years, 
To gratify a bent 
That Nature plants within 
The breast of every man. 
Triumphant o'er the ways 
And worries of the world, 
He bent him to his task 
Along the lines he loved, 
And seemed to find in this 
That tranquil happiness 
That riches cannot give. 



And all aglow with life, 

I've seen him sally forth 

In quest of some retreat. 

Among the riven rocks 

That piled themselves around 

His lonely cabin home 

And peopling the drear wastes 

And silent pinnacles 

With many a trenchant thought, 

He flung the years away, 

As many another might 

The clods beneath the feet. 

And, rich in fancy's wealth, 

He'd paint some glowing scene 

That rose before his sight. 

And call to being there 

The verdure of the fields, 



A Whistling Farmer 331 

And make the flowers bloom 
In gorgeous groups around, 
And tune the songless birds 
With endless melody. 

But, hark ! The postman calls 
Upon his whistle near, — 
A long, and plaintive call, 
That seems to indicate 
Bereavement in my mail. . . . 
And so my friend is gone ! 
He sleeps the sleep of death 
Beneath his favorite oak 
That shades the rustic seat 
Whereon, so long he sat, 
When age had pilfered all 
The vitals of his youth, 
And left him there alone 
To struggle with the world. 
And since he is no more, 
I shall redeem the pledge 
That bosom friends exact 
Of those remaining still ; 
And o'er his humble grave 
I'll place a fitting shaft, 
To mark the resting-place 
Of him who was my friend. 
And these shall be the lines 
In memory of him. 
To show the worthy man 
Who occupies this tomb. 
And let the lines you find 
In stanza number one 
Be chiseled deep and wide. 
That time may not efface 
The simple tribute paid. 



332 A Whistling Farmer 

And while he sleeps his sleep, 
Beneath the tree he loved, 
In branches, high above, 
The birds may sing for him 
A requiem of peace. 



THE AGED TRAVELER 

Aged traveler on life's journey. 

Ere the shades of evening fall. 
Bring your chair and sit beside me, 

'Neath the spreading lindens tall. 
What of youth, with all its promise, 

What of manhood, strong and bold. 
What of age that creeps upon us, — 

What do all of these unfold? 

Time will tell you, — doubtless tell you, — 
Time will tell you all of this. 

Hast thou seen some glimpse of promise 

In the scriptures, thou hast read. 
Has this hope of life eternal 

'Neath thy gladsome vision spread? 
In thy heart an overflowing, 

On thy face a saintly glee, — 
Some sweet radiance of beauty 

That the righteous only see. 

Time will tell you, — surely tell you, — 
Time will tell you everything. 

What of all these ripened harvests 
That are garnered in the sheaf. 

And the oaken tree that slumbers 
In the forest with its leaf; 



A Whistling Farmer 333 

What of all that's sifting downward, — 
Downward, downward, from the skies, 

Nothing, nothing, nothing upward? — 
Nothing's ever seen to rise. 

Aye, the spirit, who hath seen it, 

Yet, it liveth in our souls. 

And its precious admonition 

All around us still is rife, 

This will tell you, — sweetly tell you 

All the mysteries of life. 



THE ROSE 

There is a voice in things, outspoken 

In a way, and once I chanced to hear 

The language of a flower: 

**And I am but the rose," a tiny voice 

Proclaimed beside my garden wall, 

"And I am but the rose, and yet I symbol 

More than tongue can ever tell: 

Arrayed in gorgeous hues of green 

And purple cast, my buds my babies are; 

And bloom, my daughters fair; and in my stem 

Is seen the sturdy strength of man. 

And such is my command, the grave and gay 

Alike fill all the paths of earth that lead 

To my abode. 

And some with gladness come 

And press me to their hearts, and smiling 

Go their way. 

And others, crushed with grief. 

Around me linger long, and speak 

In whispers 



334 A Whistling Farmer 

Low of some departed friend. 

And so I represent the whole of life and death, 

And these, I gather all within my glad embrace, 

And standing thus between the altar and the tomb. 

For every youthful soul I ring the years 

Around with endless merriment, 

And unto those who come with feeble steps and slow 

I point them to the hopes and 

Changeless promises the Lord hath written down 

Within his sacred book. 



SALINDA HANLON'S SONG 

There 's a beautiful spring 
Near my grandfather's barn, 

'Neath a wide-spreading oak in the shade. 
And a glimpse of his cot 
Overlooking the tarn. 

Where we all bowed our heads when he prayed. 

Like some picture of home 
As it hangs on the wall, 

How the mind wanders down through the years 
To the marge of that forest 
So graceful and tall. 

Demanding its tribute of tears ! 

And it floods all my room 
As I kneel by my bed ; 

And it seems I am back there to-night. 
In the chamber of death 
I am bowing my head. 

By the flare of a dim candle light. 



A Whistling Farmer 335 

And I see our old church 
That we built on the hill, 

And our schoolhouse, a mile down the road ; 
And dim in the distance, 
The smoke of the mill, 

And a glimpse of the streamlet that flowed. 

And all of our family, 
Surrounding the hearth. 

And the table, that's spread for the meal, 
Awaiting* with jollity, 
Music and mirth, 

The toilers, that come from the field. 



OLD LIGE REAMS 

My friend and I went out to walk 

Along the village street. 
And chat with old acquaintances 

That one will often meet. 

The day was soft and beautiful, 

And as we strode along, 
Way down around the corner far, 

We heard a bawdy song. 

And soon we passed the chapel by. 

With bolted doors, a-near, 
Locked up, they said, for want of funds,- 

Which mostly went for beer. 

And next we found along the way, 

The ruins of the rink, 
That made a deal of money once. 

Which now is spent for drink. 



336 A Whistling Farmer 

As well the tavern, that had been 

A beauty in its day, 
But long ago, the house was sold. 

Because it didn't pay. 

And business blocks that once had seen 

The surging of the crowd. 
So packed they were in other times, 

The salesmen never bowed; 

A refuge now, — the most of them, — 
And all their windows broke. 

Where idle loafers congregate 
To spin their yarns and smoke. 

And many places bore this sign, 
Suspended from a nail: 
''My wife got sick. We're leaving town; 
This property's for sale." 

And so we sauntered on our way, 

Until at last we'd come 
To Reams 's place, around the block, 

That sells the people rum. 

And in we went, — my friend and I, — 

To look the topers o'er. 
And here we found a slaughter house. 

That slaughters many poor. 

And, my ! the air we found in there, 
It almost took our breath, 
''That's him," said I; "that's old Lige Reams 
That's drunk himself to death." 



A Whistling Farmer 337 

And once he owned a vast estate, 

Extending far and wide, 
More beautiful than aught IVe seen 

In all the countryside. 

And rich he was, and then his home 

Bore every modern art, 
But after dissipating long, 

He broke his people's heart. 

From speculation, years ago, 

He turned to drinking wine, 
And this at last, his friends declare. 

Has robbed him of his mind. 

Of all the horrid things in life 

That I have ever found. 
The farmer is who tries to farm 

And run a joint in town. 

And such a story, that he tells, 

About his passing wealth. 
And this has helped, beyond a doubt, 

To undermine his health. 

IVe heard him tell it o'er and o'er, 

When on his way from town, 
All smeared with mud, beside the road, 

"Where he was often found. 

And now, perhaps, as soon as he 

Has drained that glass of gin. 
He'll try his best to hold this crowd. 

And tell it o'er again. 



338 A Whistling Farmer 

See that ! By heck ! before lie starts 

He always takes a chew, 
And then, maybe, he'll pass the plug 

Around to me and you. 



(( 



Hey there, you blatant blatherskites! — 

Go seat yourselves apart, 
And let me tell these friends of mine 

'Bout Darby and my cart." 

That's it all right. He's off again, 

I've heard it now for years, 
And sometimes ere he's through with it, 

His face is bathed in tears. 

Let's take a seat and stop awhile, 

And hear the story through; 
I've known him since a little child. 

And know the story's true. 

And since he's settled in his chair. 
And down his glass he's put. 

He throws one leg across his knee 
And trots his clumsy foot. 

And now he straightens up a bit, 

And frowns upon the din. 
And quiet sweeps the room around, 

As Lige is off again. 

'Long years ago, I owned a colt, — 

When yet a little boy, — 
That gave to me, for care and feed, 

A world of youthful joy. 



A Whistling Farmer 339 

*'And this, my lords, was highly bred, 
From pure Kentucky whip. 
And Blue Grass, sirs, was all the grass 
I ever saw him nip. 

*'And father said he wanted me 
To look ahead and plan. 
So when the colt became a horse, 
I, too, would be a man. 

*'And all the plans he ever laid 
"Were realized so soon ! 
For I moved out to Iowa 
Along the River Coon. 

"And in the wagon that I drove, 
I brought the finest girl 
The Lord e 'er made, — I 'm sure of that, 
Since first he formed the worl'. 

''And here it was we drove our stakes. 
And built ourselves a home. 
And so delighted were we both. 
We vowed we'd never roam. 

"The lands were new and beautiful, 
And spread so far away, 
The eye swept at a single leap 
A thousand tons of hay. 

"And here we broke the sodden lands, 
Without a modern gang, 
And while our oxen drew the plow. 
We rode behind and sang. 



340 A Whistling Farmer 

''And then we broadly cast the seed, 
Among the furrows deep, 
And when the golden harvest came. 
The reapers came to reap. 

''And still our range was limitless 
For cattle o 'er the plains. 
And fast we gathered through the years 
A hoard of golden gains. 

"And lands Were cheap, and neighbors few, 
And these so far away. 
In driving out to make our calls, 
We often rode all day, 

"And here I'd buy a piece of lamd. 
And there another one. 
Until, in time, it seemed to me. 
They reached from sun to sun. 

"And oft, so occupied, I was, 
I'd scarcely change a stitch, 
And then the news went floating out, — 
' Old Lige is getting rich. ' 

"And while the years went gliding by 
As pleasant as the May, 
Around our cottage came at last 
Some little ones to play. 

"And, oh, those early pleasant times! 
So oft they come again, 
And whisper, whisper in my ears 
Of things that might have been. 



A Whistling Farmer 341 

**And then it was, the war broke out, 
Between the North and South, 
And horrid tales of carnage leaped 
From every human mouth. 

''And prices rose and rose again. 
And still they went on higher ; 
And so you see, in spite of me, 
They set my mind afire. 

"And speculation grew so rife, 
Ere long, I joined its ranks. 
And presently I found myself 
Tied up in sev'ral banks. 

' ' Of corn and cotton, — blast the rot ! 
I mortgaged all I had, 
And when our banks all failed at once, 
I went completely mad. 

"That day, my friends, I ceased to live, 
Since then I eat my bread ; 
But all the country round about 
Will tell you that I'm dead. 

"And so I am, so far as life 
And pleasures ever note, 
For I am but a bunch of trash. 
Upon the stream afloat. 

"And here it was that I commenced 
My wanderings alone, 
For all the lands that I possessed 
Had now forever flown. 



342 A Whistling Farmer 

''And long, in some secluded spot, 
I'd sit, with folded arms, 
Or ramble on, and farther on, 
Among my many farms. 

''And now, all kinds of trouble came, 
I never saw before. 
And soon the news came flying back : 
'Old Lige is getting poor.' 

"And long I pondered suicide 
When I'd go out to walk; 
But every time I'd raise my knife 
My hand would always balk. 

"And then I sold my chattels off, 
And everything I found. 
And what few dollars I had left 
I hid them in the ground. 

"And while I weaker grew each day, 
From worry and distress, 
I found a monster worse than this, — 
That demon, drunkenness! 

"For now, one day, I went to town, 
And bought a keg of wine. 
Unlike the one the Savior made 
In Galilee so fine. 

"And then I bought another keg, 
And soon I bought some more, — 
And such a pile of empty kegs, 
I never had before, 



A Whistling Farmer 343 

"Between two evils now I stood, 
And both had swiftly come : 
The one, it offered suicide. 
The other proffered mm. 

' ' And death stood there and swung his scythe, 
Keen cutting as a knife, 
And rum held out, with trembling hand, 
A bottle for my life. 

"And there I stood in wonderment. 
Between this double hell, 
And then I fought with suicide. 
Before I, wounded, fell. 

"And still I made a blunder here. 
That's filled me with regret, — 
In choosing drink, instead of death, — 
That I shall ne'er forget. 

"But I was younger then, by far, 
Than what I am to-day, 
And so the wine that's beautiful, — 
It led my feet astray. 

"And all is lost, and ever yet, 
I worship still my farm. 
And while it lies in other hands, 
It holds for me a charm, 

"No other home, in all the world. 
Can ever hold for me, — 
Regardless of its ornaments. 
Whatever they may be. 



344 A Whistling Farmer 



**But now, among these ruins thick, 
That all around me fell, 
One thing I had, I made a vow, 
That I would never sell. 

*'And so I kept my father's horse, — 
Old Darby was his name, — 
For somehow, yet, it seemed to me, 
He'd help to hide my shame. 

^'For, while affection for the home 
May spread her wings and fly. 
This love goes out to something else ; 
For love can never die. 

''This may be Greek to younger ones, 
But older ones, of course. 
Have often seen the driver fall 
Below his driving horse. 

''And so it was with me and mine, 
I'd often make him speed. 
To raise my self a notch or two. 
In showing off my steed. 

"And round the country much we went. 
To distant parts alone. 
For trouble seeks to hide herself, 
Where she is little known. 

"And then one day I hitched him up. 
To drive him down to town, 
And as we jogged along the road, 
Now what, think you, we found ? 



A Whistling Farmer 345 

A swarm of bees; and soon they lit 

All o'er my horse's back, 
And then I struck him such a blow, 

And gave him such a crack, 

The cart he kicked, and off he went, 

And left me in the road, — 
And then the bees all lit on me 

As helpless as a toad. 

Yes, on he went, and went to town, 

And reaching it by noon. 
He stopped to snort and blow a while, 

In front of my saloon. 

'And some one turned the horse around. 

And here he comes again, 
And, Lord! I thought of everything 

That constitutes a sin. 

' But when he reached the bees and me, 

He kinder geed! and hawed! 
And then he came straight up to us. 

And there he stood and pawed; 

'And every time the horse would paw. 

The bees would sting me more, 
And 'Gosh!' said I, 'I guess these two 

Are bound to get me, sure.' 

'Meanwhile, I reasoned with him long, 

While laying like a chunk; 
But still he shook his head and pawed, — 

Convinced that I was drunk. 



346 A Whistling Farmer 

"He'd got me out of scrapes before, 
But, Mister, if you please, 
I shuddered when I saw my horse 
A-working with the bees, 

' ' But close at hand some branches hung, — 
A cluster, with their green, — 
And presently the bees left me, 
In following the queen, 

' * And, say, I loved that dear old horse, 
"We'd been on many a spree, 
And often, ere I'd reach the ditch, 
I'd tie him to a tree, 

"And there he'd stand, and wait and wait, 
And presently he'd neigh, 
Then I'd wake up and bluster around, 
To find my horse some hay, 

"And when he'd eaten all of this. 
And I had drained my wines, 
He'd rub his nose against my face. 
And motion toward the lines. 

"And on we'd go, along the road. 
My Darby horse and me. 
So deeply in the darksome night, 
That neither one could see. 

"But when we'd come in sight of home. 
We'd always find a light, 
Placed there for us by loving hands, — 
A beacon in the night. 



A Whistling Farmer 347 

''And, regardless of my drunkenness, 

Or how, or when I came. 
This angel of another world 

Was always just the same. 

* * Through heat and cold, and raging storms, 
No matter still how late, 
This wife that was so kind and true 
Would meet me at the gate. 

"And when we'd found our way inside, 
I'd stumble o'er the chairs, 
And then, with endless kindness still, 
She'd help me up the stairs. 

**And often now she'd hide her face 
Behind a flood of tears. 
And then I'd promise o'er and o'er, — 
As I had done for years. 

''And so the seasons came and went. 
But I kept on pursuin' 
The path that leaves us all at last 
Upon the brink of ruin. 

"And then my horse got old, you know, 
He'd stumble along the way. 
Just like we do, as age comes on, 
With feebleness, and gray. 

"And now old Darby's dead and gone. 
And left me here alone. 
And so's my wife, my children, too, — 
And all my friends have flown. 



348 A Whistling Farmer 

''And then, afoot, to town I'd go. 
As when the roads were fine. 
And sometimes I'd be gone for days. 
To buy a flask of wine. 

''And once, when I was musing o'er 
My troubles and remorse, 
It seemed to me that something said, 
'Why not a hobby horse?' 



< ( 



And this I made, the best I could. 
From boards, and broken post, 

And when I had him all complete, 
Ye gods! and what a ghost! 



"And then it was I hitched him up. 
And placed the cart behind, 
And there I'd sit and ride all day, 
To pacify my mind. 

"And when the clouds grew dark and low, 
And rains came pouring down, 
I'd hail some farmer on the road. 
And ask the way to town. 

"And then my horse, I'd threaten him 
With my old cowhide whip, 
And when I found him slowing down, 
I'd let profanity slip. 

"And there I'd sit and ride all day. 
Amid the raging blast, 
In calling up the years that's gone. 
And dreaming o'er the past, — 



A Whistling Farmer 349 

'And of my horse, and friends and farm, 

And of my children kind, 
And graves would loom among the gloom. 

And then, again, the wine. 

'And here I'd jostle my cart again, 

And rattle the wheels behind. 
A-cantering down to Jolica town, 
To buy a flask of wine. 

'And then, one day, I lost my way. 
And wandered round and round, 
But pleased I was. because I thought 
That I was nearing town, 

'And friends of mine, they saw my plight. 

And came and took me in, 
And, oh, so pleasant burned the hearth ! 

It seemed like home again. 

'And stiU, the tevening dragged along. 

The clock was striking ten. 
And here I bowed and bowed me out. 
And said I'd caU again. 

"And straightway now I sought my cart, 
And left the miles behind. 
A-cantering down to Jolica town 
To buy a flask of wine, 

' 'To buy a flask of wine,' I'd sing, — 
' To buy a flask of wine ! 
A-cantering down to Jolica town 
To buy a flask of wine I ' 



350 A Whistling Farmer 

*'And then my shack, I'd often seek, — 
My shack, so cold and still, — 
And there I've prayed, and prayed aloud. 
For rest upon the hill. 

*^And some time, when the snows pile high 
Around the lonesome tree. 
Where I have lain and froze to death, 
As stiff as one can be, 

''Some passerby along the way, — 
Or skaters on the streams, — 
May point me out, and smiling say : 
'The end of old Lige Reams!' " 



THE CIVIL ENGINEER 

To all who ask of me, 

I have but one reply, 

For mine is a life of toil. 

And here, among these fields 

Of endless magnitude, 

Year after year, I still pursue 

These changeless mysteries. 

For, mark you well, I have to do 

With the upbuilding of the world. 

And where these mountains pile 

Their hoary peaks around. 

With endless patience still 

I cut the ways along. 

That streams may onward flow 

And trains pass through to other lands. 

And where these bogs abound, 

And vapors hide from view 



A Whistling Farmer 351 

The dismal waters wide, 
Along some grand canal, 
I drive my grading-stake, 
And, lo ! another vast domain 
Awaits the pioneer. 
And while I onward go 
Adown the passing years, — 
Equipped with every phase 
Of scientific truth 
That mighty minds have dug 
From out the rubbish round, — 
I lay my plans so well 
That few have e'er escaped 
My ultimate desire. 
In proof of this, go East, 
And ever eastward far. 
Until you meet again 
The rising of the sun; 
Or move along the lines 
Of travel to the West, 
"Where, in majestic sweep, 
The star of empire takes 
Her everlasting way. 
And you will find me there. 
Outwailing yet aloud, 
From all the lapse of time, 
I speak a varied language still 
From aqueduct and bridge 
And many a moldering heap, 
That history's long forgot. 
And yet, amid all this, 
I ever labor on, 
That all the world may say: 
*' Where yesterday the howling wolf 
Awoke the dismal echoes of the night, 
To-day a brilliant city stands. ' ' 



352 A Whistling Farmer 

Yes, mine's a life of toil. 

For oft, while others slumber on, 

In thought, I'm stealing down 

The dim highways of the past, 

And here and there I drag to light 

The rude skeleton 

Of some forgotten age. 

For mine has ever been 

A complexity of problems, 

And ever must remain 

A never-ending string 

Of varied complications. 

And yet, among them all, 

I find some pleasure still 

In every passing hour. 

For oft, — when night comes down 

And lays her baleful hand 

Upon the light of day, 

And silence grips again 

The busy marts of trade, — 

The midnight hour comes 

And sounds aloud her gong 

Ere yet, I am aware. 

Nor do I often hear 

The rattling of the car 

Upon the stony street, 

That sends a tremor through 

The room in which I sit. 

But let the past go by. 

With all its vagueness swept 

Beyond the grasp of man. 

To meet the problems here 

Confronting us to-day; 

And try to penetrate 

Those hidden mysteries, 

The future must unfold, 



A Whistling Farmer 353 

Aye, that's the engineer 

The world is l(X)king for! 

And so I find myself 

Repeating o'er and o'er, 

To all inquiring minds : 
''Mine is a life of toil." 

And buoyed up by this, 

And my perseverance here, 

I've shaken this staid old world 

As a child does her rattle-box. 

For bear you this in mind, 

That I am the factor still, 

And I'm the influence. 

And I'm the guide-post 

On all of the highways 

And byways of the earth; 

And always, here I stand 

And cry me out aloud 

To every passerby: 
''Turn to the right, my friend. 

For this is the better way." 

And in these problems wrought, 

I've found a happy life; 

Forever still I live, 

As the thought of my soul lives, 

And I warp as it warps. 

While I gravitate to the brink 

Of an ultimate perfection, 

Like the fabric that flows 

From Time's unchanging loom. 



354 A Whistling Farmer 



A TRAGEDY OF HUDSON BAY 

One eve of late, 
Before my grate, 

To pass the time away, 
I heard again 
What long has been 

The theme of Hudson Bay. 



'Twas winter time, 
When sleigh-bells chime 

Delightfully and grand, 
And snows lie deep. 
And wild storms sweep 

Across that northern land. 



And far away 
In Canada, 

Where travelers are lost. 
And great strong ships, 
Beyond their slips, 

Upon tlie rocks are tossed. 



In days of yore. 
Long, long before 

The immigrant had come 
To plan, and work. 
And build the kirk, 

And make the factories hum,- 



A Whistling Farmer 355 

A vent'rous man 
Conceived a plan, 

Northwest his course to lay; 
And, with his train, 
He crossed the plain 

In search of Hudson Bay. 

And where they found 
The richest ground. 

They took, each one, a claim, 
And on the silt, 
A village built, 

And gave to this a name, — 

But miles away 
From Hudson Bay, 

Upon the prairies vast. 
And here they wrought 
With pleasure fraught, 

Until their lives were past: 

Out where the air 
And dash and dare 

Of such a life as this 
"Will tinge and flood 
With crimson blood 

The cheeks of every miss. 

And where the soul 
Grows strong and bold. 

With never once a fear ; 
And where each mile's 
An endless wild, 

Along that vast frontier. 



356 A Whistling Farmer 

And where the youth 
Must prove the truth 

Of every prowess claimed, 
Or lose the hand, 
For which he 's planned, 

And be forever shamed. 



For maidens fair 
Were plenty there. 

Around the countryside. 
And bright and gay, — 
I dare to say, — 

And fit for any bride. 

And one fair maid, 
"While thus arrayed. 

Caused bitter rivalry, 
Which grew and grew, 
As things will do, 

As every one may see. 

May Manton tall 
Was known by all; 

With flashing eyes of blue. 
As well no art 
Could change her heart, 

That beat forever true. 

And there was yet, — 
Ere I forget, — 

Another in the land, 
And he had sought. 
And flowers brought, 

To gain the lady's hand. 



A Whistling Farmer 357 

And o'er and o'er, 
Within her door, 

He'd called to hear her sing; 
And then one day 
He stole away. 

And bought a signet ring. 

And others learned 
That love still burned 

A flame in Willie's heart, 
And long they strove 
To wreck his love 

And drive the two apart. 

But hate and scorn, 
Alone were born, 

For those who interfered; 
And clans arose 
And came to blows, 

As older ones had feared. 

And thus at last 
The autumn passed. 

And nights grew long and cold, 
And more, each man, 
Who joined the clan. 

Grew desperately bold. 

Then May and Will, 
With cunning skill, 

They planned to steal away, 
To reach the post, 
Along the coast, — 

The post of Hudson Bay. 



35^ A Whistling Farmer 

And so one night, — 
One Christmas night, 

When storms blew loud amain, 
May Manton now. 
And Willie Dow, 

Essayed to cross the plain. 

Though weary miles 
And frightful tri'ls. 

They knew before them lay, 
In such a flight, 
That stormy night, 

In northern Canada. 

But they were bold. 
And friends they'd told 

To mention this no more. 
But, oh! the storm, — 
The awful storm, — 

That howled around their door! 

But they were young 
And highly strung. 

And boldly faced the gale, 
And dared the storm 
That hid each form 

Along the trappers' trail. 

And vowing love. 
They rose above 

The elements around, — 
The while their steeds, 
Of racing breeds. 

Sprang forward with a bound. 



A Whistling Farmer 359 

They disappeared, 
With hut a word 

Of farewell to their friends, 
Who saw ahead 
A scene of dread, 
A frightful mission lends. 

But scarce they'd gone 
Their way upon. 

When others hove in sight, — 
While curses fell, 
And clanging bell 

Made hideous the night. 

For now this clan 
Had laid a plan 

To steal the maiden fair 
And claim her hand, 
As they had planned. 

Her vast estates to share. 

So down the trail 
Amid the gale, 

Two sleighs went dashing by, 
While louder grew 
The storm that blew, — 

And darker hung the sky. 

And with this blast 
Increasing fast 

The darkness of the night, 
And not a rift 
Above the drift 

To guide the lovers ' flight. 



360 A Whistling Farmer 

With whip at play, 
They held their way 

From intervening harm, 
TiU oft, I wot. 
Some random shot 

Aroused them with alarm. 

For close behind, 
Through break and pine 

And gently sloping hill, 
This outlaw band 
That cursed the land 

Drew near, and nearer still. 

And once they gained. 
And near maintained 

The leading sleigh beside. 
And, with a shout. 
Two men sprang out. 

But missed the lovers wide. 

And while their teams 
And oaths and screams 

Lent horror to the night, 
Yet May and Will 
Escaped them, still 

Triumphant in their flight. 

The night wore on, 
But ere the dawn 

Of that eventful day 
They passed the post 
Along the coast, — 

The post of Hudson Bay. 



A Whistling Farmer 361 

For while the storm 
Hid every form, 

Amid the darksome night, 
And howling wolf 
And flying hoof 

Pursued them in their flight, — 

Out, o'er a field. 
That lay concealed, 

They madly held their way, 
Out o'er the ice, — 
The rotten ice, — 

The ice of Hudson Bay. 

And years have flown 
Since this was known, 

And many Christmas days, 
But not a word 
Was ever heard 

From either of the sleighs. 

And yet, they say, 
That stormy bay 

Preserves this secret still, 
Of how, and why. 
They came to die, — 

And doubtless always will. 

And so, each night. 
Each Christmas night, 

In northern Canada, 
This story old 
Is often told, 

To pass the time away. 



362 A Whistling Farmer 



MY DOG AND I 

Just why my dog should bark at night, 
And whine and howl with all his might, 
Has always been a mystery quite, 
To me for years. 

And why he leaps my team before, 
And wags his tail before my door, 
And seeks me out, and looks me o'er. 
As oft he does. 

And why my dog should love me so, 
And watch me close, where'er I go, 
And other things I'd like to know 
About my dog. 

For one, you see, he 's got no bed, 
Or place to lay his weary head. 
And yet, he loves his master Ted, 
For all of that. 

And to me, still he's always true. 
No matter what I say or do, 
Nor does he have his days of blue. 
As does my wife. 

And so I've thought of this a heap. 
And oft at night, before I sleep, 
I con it o'er, — this mystery deep 
About my dog. 



A Whistling Farmer 363 

And then, one day, we had a talk, 
When he and I went out to walk, 
Near by some cliffs, as white as chalk, 
'Long down the road. 

For we're as close as close can be; 
I talk to him, and he to me, 
So any one can plainly see 
Just how we stand. 

And when we'd talked awhile on game, 
Another subject to me came, 
But now, it seems an awful shame, 
I spoke of this. 

For then I said unto my dog, — 
While I sat resting on a log, — 
That old Tom Keets, who loves his grog, — 
You watch him close. 

A long time now, it seems to me. 
My wife and Keets, as all can see. 
They're just as thick as thick can be 
When I'm not in. 

And I'm afraid there's other Keets, 
When I'm away she often meets. 
Beside this one particular Keets 
I speak about. 

For late one eve, — of this I'm sure, — 
A shadow passed across my door. 
And likely, too, there were some more. 
Not far away. 



364 A Whistling Farmer 

And will you watch, old Towser dear, 
And will you watch, when I'm not near, 
And shut one eye, so you'll appear 
To be asleep? 

''Bow wow!'' said he, ''I see your plan," 
Meanwhile, he stood and licked my hand, 
''That's what I will, — I'll watch each man 
For all I'm worth. 

*'For clear to me seems your appeal, 
And well I know just how you feel, 
'Cause other dogs have tried to steal 
The bitch I love. 

*'No doubt you've seen these sneaks aroun', 
Some bulls and fices, one's a houn', 
And some are white, and some are brown, 
A mongrel lot. 

**And these are here most all the time, 
And slobber out their strings of slime. 
And there's not one that's worth a dime, 
I venture that." 

And while these two together stood, 
Along the road beside the wood, — 
These mutual friends of brotherhood, — 
And talked it o'er, 

Once more it was Old Towser said, 
The while he growled and shook his head, 
''If you'll provide some meat and bread 
For me and mine. 



A Whistling Farmer 365 

"And club tlie^^e curs from off the earth, 
This mongrel horde of little worth, — 
Not one of which could get a berth 
That's worth a dang, — 

^hy, then, I'll watch all day and night, 
And howl and bark and scratch and bite 
The whole of them, with all my might. 
That's what I'll do. 

And you must do the same for me, 
And use your gun, if need to be, — 
And in the end I guess we'll see 
Who runs this place." 

And then I spoke to him and said, 
^Sure, Tow, I'll furnish meat and bread. 
And build a house, and make a bed, 
Where you can sleep. 

And then ITl buy a band of brass. 
Bright shining as the smoothest glass. 
That all may see when e'er they pass. 
The dog you are; 

' For this will show your pedigree, 
Plain written down so all can see. 
And prouder then I'm sure you'll be 
Among vour friends. 

'And, Tow, when all of this is done, 
111 buy some buck and load my gun, 
And then, by heck! we'll have some fun, 
Among these curs. 



366 A Whistling Farmer 

''And every hound, and every bull, 
I'll fill their hides so 'tarnal full,- 
Again they'll never have a pull 
Around your bitch. 



And when in time your life may end, 
On this one thing you may depend, 
111 rear a stone, inscribed 'My Friend,' 
Above your grave. 

And while I live, I'll think of you. 
And keep your tomb all fresh and new, 
For no one else has been as true 
As you have been." 

Then Tow went leaping o'er the ground. 
And whirled him to and fro around, 
And barked so loud, he well-nigh drowned 
The noisy train. 

And then once more to me he come, 
And hung his head, and seemed so glum, 
As like men do, — as like to some, 
Who stop to think. 

And when I saw he seemed inclined 
To speak the burden of his mind, 
'Twas then I spoke in accents kind. 
And said: "Go on," 

And down he sat, and kinder bowed. 
Then raised his head, and howled aloud. 
As though he felt extremely proud 
To have a chance. 



A Whistling Farmer 367 

''And how," said he, "about that bird? 
Your wife, she's got a parrot bird, 
And how he swears, — but then you 've heard 
Him doing that. 

''And, Ted, look out, she's watching you, 
And has that bird to help her, too, 
And my ! the things they often do, 
When you're away. 

"For oft when you are round the brush. 
That bird screams out, and makes a rush, 
Until your wife, she bids him hush, 
For fear you'll hear. 

"And then, she takes him from the cage, 
While both are in a crazy rage. 
And what they say would fill a page — 
I venture that. 

"And o'er and o'er, I've heard him swear, 
About some lady, young and fair, 
And then your wife, she'll pull her hair, 
And have a fit. 

"And while that bird screams loud and hoarse. 
And shakes the cage with all his force, 
Your wife, she talks about divorce, 
And rings her hands. 

"And then, as oft when I draw nigh, 
The bird turns round and asks me why. 
Or else screams out a frightful cry, 
And points at me 



368 A Whistling Farmer 

**And says: 'You damned old spotted cur! 
And what the hell you doing here? 
It seems to me you're always near, 
Wlien e'er we talk. 

^'And then your wife so oft she's said, 
While hurling stovewood at my head : 
'I'll put some poison in your bread, — 
That's what I'll do.' 

*'So, while this bird gets dainties sweet 
All strewn around beneath his feet, 
She flings to me some rotten meat, 
And says: 'Begone!' 



( I 



And, Ted, I've known of this so long, 
It's got so awful rank and strong. 
From what you said, I thought it wrong 
To hold my tongue. 

^And while we are so far away, 
I thought perhaps to-day's the day. 
And time, and place, when I should say 
Just what I have. 

'But don't you tell what I have said. 
For if you do, it's poisoned bread, 
Or else some stovewood on my head. 
As oft before. 

And, Ted, my heart goes out to you. 
For like as not, you're kind and true. 
But things like these are nothing new 
For married folk. 



A Whistling Farmer 369 

"And now, before we move away, 
About these things I've told to-day, — 
I'd like to hear what you've to say 
About all this. 

''And if you grieve, I'll grieve with you, 
And do whate'er you tell me to. 
And until death, you'll find me true 
As any dog. 

**And in the end, if you should find 
It best to leave your home behind, 
I'll still remain forever kind. 
As I have been. 

*'And, Ted, — my dear old master Ted," — 
And here, down low he hung his head. 
And mused awhile, and then he said, 
''I'd better not." 

And forth once more he, circling, sprung, 
As if upon some trail he hung, 
Meanwhile, expanding wide his lung, 
He bayed aloud. 

And to and fro, and back he came. 
As if in sight of fleeing game. 
Except he circled much the same. 
As on he went. 

Amazed, at last I called him back. 
And gave his ears a gentle crack. 
For now to me, it seemed, alack ! 
He'd daffy gone. 



370 A Whistling Farmer 

And then at me he slyly sent 
A frowning look of discontent; 
And well I knew just what it meant, 
And held my tongue. 

Except, in gentle words and kind, 
I urged him on to speak his mind 
About something he seemed inclined 
To hold in check. 

But still he stood and shook his head, 
As though his heart from sorrow bled, 
And then, once more, he firmly said, 
'^'d better not." 

And straightway now I left my log. 
And, like a sailor full of grog, 
I clenched my fist and trounced my dog. 
For what he said. 

And then he rose, without a word, 
And such a howl I never heard, — 
So sad it was, and awful weird, — 
It made me think. 

And o'er his features, soft and bland, 
I saw a troubled look expand, 
And yet, he stood and licked my hand. 
For all of that. 

And then he raised his head to mine. 
Without the semblance of a whine. 
And straightway now, in accents fine, 
He told me this: 



A Whistling Farmer 371 

*'And do you know, my master Ted, 
I've told the truth in all I've said. 
And don't you think I'm better dead 
Than living thus. 

''And should I tell the same of you, — 
And every word was gospel true, — 
I'd like to know just what you'd do 
About these things. 

"For I'm afraid to eat or drink, 
Nor do I dare to sleep a wink, 
For lately, now, I've come to think 
She'll get me, sure. 

"And every time when you're away, 
I hear these threats all through the day, 
And just last eve I heard her say, 
'I've got the stuff.' 

"And further, Ted, I'll tell you true, 
I've heard her say the same of you. 
And then that bird, he'll cackle too. 
And saw: 'Amen!' 

"And so it's plain that I and you 
Have got to see this trouble through. 
And what you think we'd better do 
About all this?" 

And then I called him to my side. 
And gazing at him, open-eyed, 
I asked him if he ever lied 
About my wife. 



372 A Whistling Farmer 



And while we two a- jangling stood, 
Out there along the shady wood, 
In madness now, I thought I should 
Destroy my dog. 

And in my rage I drew my knife, 
And threats I made against his life, 
Because he dared to charge my wife 
With murdering. 

And turning now, I plainly saw 
His teeth, within his upper jaw. 
And pointing off, he raised his paw, 
And said: ''Come on! 

'Come on, and let us damn with hate. 
This bird and wife, your bosom mate. 
And wreck their lives and seal their fate 
Forevermore ! 

'For they are each a cringing slave. 
Unfitted for the true and brave. 
And come ; let 's drive them to their grave. 
And leave them there, 

'Asleep, within some potters lot. 
Way off in yon neglected spot. 
Where they can rest, and be forgot 
By all their friends ! ' ' 

And plainer now, — and plain as day, — 
These fogs before me passed away. 
And ere I knew before me lay 
The naked truth, — 



A Whistling Farmer 373 

The hidden truth I'd failed to see. 
This monster here that beckoned me, 
This prince of hell, grim jealousy. 
That caused my fall. 

And when all this began to dawn, 
I turned, to find my dog was gone; 
And yet this phantom struggled on, 
Around me still. 

This nasty myth, this airy mite, 
That haunts us all by day and night. 
And seemeth still to take delight 
In what it does. 

And this I've seen in pigs a-sty, 
And winging birds in passing by, 
And beasts afield, when some wild cry 
Presages strife. 

And this was not my dog I saw, — 
This thing that made him lift his paw, — 
But something else, an unseen law 
That grips us all. 

And rambling on with brazen din, 
It open flung the gates again. 
And let the fiends of darkness in. 
To plead their cause. 

And plainly now they said to me : 
'Hast thou not eyes? Canst thou not see 
This breach that lies 'tween Hhee and she' 
Still wider grows, — 



374 A Whistling Farmer 

''As like a stream that onward flows, 
And deeper yet and deeper grows? 
And were you men, you'd come to blows 
Beyond a doubt. 

''And well you know this much is true 
While in your ways you still pursue, 
Your world is but your dog and you, 
From day to day. 

"And she as well, she hath her bird. 
And oft it is your name is sneered, 
And from you both, there's ne'er a word 
To cheer you on. 

' ' But know this much, — ^you 're not alone, 
Like snarling dogs that guard their bone. 
For storms like these have often blown. 
Before your day. 

"In lands remote, where'er you look, 
And on the page of every book. 
For ages gone, this thing has shook 
The very throne. 

"Not always thus, — a dog or bird, — 
As with you two has overheard ; 
But some sly wink, or loving word. 
Has turned the trick. 

"And plunged the race in sore distress 
Has some old king, or flippant Bess, 
Which nations oft have failed to guess 
For years to come." 



A Whistling Farmer 375 

And while I stood and conjured long, 
A host of things began to throng, 
And all I saw, — and all was wrong 
Beyond a doubt. 

And such a pang I never felt. 
As from a blow, the truth had dealt, 
And soon my tears began to melt 
Around remorse, — 

Remorse for things, since past and gone. 
When manhood first began to dawn, 
And life and hope went flowing on 
Like some mild stream. 

And backward now, and backward fast. 
The scenes of youth around me massed, 
And ere they all before me passed, 
I found relief. 

Relief from all those ugly things, 
That fill the heart with aching stings. 
And unto many often brings 
A ruined life. 

And thus relieved, I made a vow 
That brings a lasting pleasure now. 
And wherefore this? and why? and how? 
I must be brief. 

For I had seen, as all should see. 
In bird and dog and her and me, 
A cheerless world of jealousy 
Around our home. 



376 A Whistling Farmer 

The dog was jealous of the bird; 
The bird was jealous of the dog; 
My wife was jealous, too, of me; 
And I of her. 

A never-ending jealous lot, 
Forever boiling like a pot. 
And day and night we kept it hot 
Continually. 

And now to me this thought occurred: 
Before we had this dog and bird, 
We two, we never had a word 
That caused distress. 

And then it was I turned around, 
And home I went, with hurried bound ; 
For well I knew that I had found 
The truth at last. 

And to my wife, these things I told. 
Without reserve, in language bold, 
And glad I was to now behold 
Her smiling face. 

And while I pointed to the past, 
Within my arms I held her fast. 
And both of us, we found at last 
The road to peace. 

'Twere long to tell how clear and bright 
Around us shone this gladsome light, 
Compared with that long, darksome night 
We left behind. 



A Whistling Farmer 377 

And let me warn you ere I close: 
The world is full of heartless woes, 
And this is only one that shows 
Along the way. 

But this, if still allowed to grow, — 
This can a host of troubles show, 
And of this one before I go 
I wish to say : 

Beware the bird of scandal tongue. 
When social intercourse is sprung, 
For this, alas! has often flung 
Its evils far. 

And birds there are without a wing. 
Who pride themselves on tattling, 
And leave behind some deadly sting, — 
And go their way. 

And dogs as well among our race. 
Of low deceit and cunning face, 
And all around they spread disgrace. 
Where'er they go. 

And of all such, you should beware, — 
All those who would some secret bare, — 
And clench your fist, and turn you square, 
And walk away. 

And lend your hand to minimize 
This storm that threatens many skies. 
And all who do are wisdom wise 
In every land. 



378 A Whistling Farmer 



WHAT DOES IT MEAN TO BE AN 
AMERICAN? 1 

It means conformation to ideals of America, her 
laws, her customs, and the American form of govern- 
ment, the fundamental principles of which are found 
in the Declaration of Independence and the Consti- 
tution of the United States of America. It means 
representation in deliberative bodies, and it means 
a free school and an education for every child. It 
means liberality; it means toleration; it means the 
Brotherhood of Man. It means a broadening and 
a deepening of that love that we have for our own, 
for those in distant lands. It means a definite state- 
ment, with definite aims in view; it means attach- 
ment; it means patriotism, and it means abiding 
faith in home and native land. It means kindness; 
it means sympathy, and it means charity for every 
friendly soul beneath the Stars and Stripes. It 
means the elevation of our race, — in the physical, in 
the moral, and in the intellectual world. And, in 
times of stress, it means living for these, fighting for 
these, and dying for these things upon the field of 
honor. 

Won 't you come with us, and be an American, that 
in the hour of death you may say, with one of old: 
' ' I 've fought a good fight, I 've kept the faith ; hence- 
forward, there is laid up for me treasures in heaven, 
that rust cannot corrupt nor thieves break through 
and steal.'' 

*In answer to Baltimore. 



A Whistling Farmer 379 



THE PLEA OF ARTHUR ALDEN 

May I not live again, dear Lord? 
May I not live again, — 
And leave behind me here 
These long and tedious hours, 
So burdened with distress; 
And every ache and pain, 
And all this dreadful gloom 
That comes, as if in glee. 
To claim me as their own? 
And why ? Behold my feet, — 
These useless feet of mine, — 
These feet of other days. 
Which twinkled like the stars 
And ever gloried in 
The swiftness of the chase ! 
But now, — alas for these ! 
So dull and dead they are, 
They cry them out aloud 
For every passing crutch. 
And yet, how like they are 
My pale and puny hands, — 
These hands that gladly sought 
The labors of the fields. 
And took such keen delight 
In every manly sport, — 
These drawn and twisted hands! 
These weak and trembling hands 
Have lost their cunning now, 
And come to tell, with sobs, 
Their story of decay. 
And yet, full brothers they 



380 A Whistling Farmer 

And first of kin they are 

To these, my dull and listless ears; 

These watchmen, at their post. 

These trusty sentinels. 

That ever pointed out 

The dangers that abound. 

In all the walks of life. 

These faithful ears of mine 

That once so quickly caught 

The rustling of the leaf, 

And thrilled my very soul 

With endless melodies, 

As when the merry birds 

Made vocal all the woods, 

That spread themselves around 

My early cottage home. 

And, sacrificing all, 

These, too, have come to lay 

Their weary burden down 

Beside my sightless eyes. 

These brilliant orbs of blue! 

These windows of the soul. 

These bright, and sparkling eyes. 

Of childhood, long ago. 

These constant servants, mine. 

That ever sought afar 

Among the depths of space. 

And laid by treasures here 

For thoughts in after years. 

And must these ever lie 

In utter darkness thus? 

And be content to know 

In other times gone by 

They labored with a zeal 

Among the starry depths, 

And helped with problems there, 



A Whistling Farmer 381 

That Nature loves to hide 
Among the cosmos deep? 
These eyes, these sightless eyes, 
And have they come at last 
Unto the brink of life, 
And taken their last review 
Of every changing scene, 
And hill, and glade, and vale, 
And every passing cloud 
That gently floats away 
Upon the evening breeze ? 
If so, farewell, bright world, 
To all that vigor knew, — 
"When vision swept afar 
The mysteries of space. 
And left a passing gleam 
Of pleasant memories. 
But now, away with this! 
Away with every thought 
That mortal vision bounds. 
For on beyond, I look. 
Beyond the distant star, 
And hope to find in this 
^ Some lasting treasure there 
That time cannot efface. 

And what are all of these 
Piled high around my room? 
Behold this vast array 
Of medications here. 
And what are all of these 
But vain and useless hopes? 
Can these deceive the mind, 
And make believe that life 
Within these nostrums lies; 
The very thought of this. 



382 A Whistling Farmer 

The irony of fate, 

A bubble swept along 

Upon the passing stream. 

As well we might decry 

The setting of the sun, 

Or seek to stay the tides 

Upon the ocean there. 

And so I bide me here 

As best I can to-day, 

Amid this swirling throng 

Of transitory things; 

And hope to find ere long 

A better life beyond. 

And what conjectures here 

Fill out the passing time? 

And what enormous swing 

Between these two extremes, — 

The swing of pleasures now, 

And then again the swing 

That ever outward goes. 

And ends, I know not where. 

And yet, amid all this — 

Bright gleaming in between 

The darkness of the hour, — 

A never-failing source 

Of consolation comes 

And drives me on to ask: 

May I not live again, dear Lord? 

May I not live again 

A life more beautiful than this. 

Ere yet these eyes went forth 

To join this silent tongue? 

This vague and useless thing. 

This hesitating tongue! 

This clumsy tongue it was 

That sent its warnings oft 



A Whistling Farmer 383 

Adown the marhle halls, 
And roused to life again 
The lethargy of men: 
This caustic member here, 
That ever forged ahead 
To meet some daring foe, — 
Or else, mayhap, it was 
This softly pleading tongue, 
When honors claimed the day. 
And strife was swept aside 
By gentleness of speech. 
But let occasion rise, 
And once again was heard 
This acrimonious tongue; 
And, like a storm, it broke 
Amid the thunderings; 
And, laying down the law 
Before some cringing horde, 
It filled with dire alarm 
The enemies of State, 
And sent a quake of fear 
Through every guilty soul. 
But now I grieve to tell; 
For now this useless tongue 
Has ceased its babblings bold. 
And waits the final call 
To pleasures on beyond, — 
Beyond the pale of man. 
And ever on, beyond 
These frightful sufferings. 
Lord, who sent me here 
Among this field of thorns. 
And no provision made 
To guard against distress, 
Until I reach at last 
The bosom of my God ? 



3^4 A Whistling Farmer 

And so I plead for life 
Beyond this brazen thief 
That comes to steal away 
My every vital part. 
This enemy of mine 
That seems delighted still 
With every ache and painj 
This demon leading on 
Within my being here! 
This wanton reveler 
That glides about my room, 
With malice in his heart, 
And, ere I am aware, 
He strikes, and strikes again 
With many a cruel stab. 
And, plying thus his trade, 
He makes the gladsome day 
A horror to behold, 
And fills the quiet night 
With endless miseries. 
And this reserved for me ! 
And this for every man 
Who weeps aloud at birth, 
And weeping on his way. 
He passes into death. 
And here he comes again. 
This messenger of doom. 
And swings aloft his scythe. 
And with delight proclaims 
My last remaining hour. 
This heartless cavalier, 
That goes from home to home 
And leaves a flood of tears 
On every smiling face. 
This vile and shapeless thing 
That none can e'er escape! 



A Whistling Farmer 385 

This horrid beast of prey 
That tears me with his fangs 
Like as a vulture might! 
And how I hate him still 
With all my throbbing heart. 
Where justice sits enthroned, 
And honors lead the way, 
To die upon the field, 
As like a soldier bold, 
Is but a passing thought ! 
But when Old Age comes by 
And calmly sits him down 
Within my chamber here, 
I am beside myself 
With never-ending fears. 
And what a thought is this, — 
A woeful sounding thought,- — 
That throws a pall of gloom 
Across the paths of all, 
And racks the strongest frame 
With endless tremblings! 
Decrepitude, aye, that word. 
Of all the words I've known, 
The most distressing still! 
For while I slumber oft 
In undisturbed repose, 
Unbidden now, it comes. 
And lays its blighting hands 
On all that I possess: 
Upon these organs here, 
So splendidly equipped 
For every useful phase 
Of man's eternal needs; 
Yes, upon each one of these. 
And on my hopes as well, 
Which ever bore me on 



386 A Whistling Farmer 

Amid the changing scenes 
Of all the passing years. 
Yes, on every one of them! 
And for my very life 
Day after day it comes, 
Until the whole is gone. 
Decrepitude, Decrepitude! 
How like a ghost you are! 
And still you laugh aloud 
At all my locks and keys; 
And ever thus you stab 
And stab and maim again, 
And why? — ^to gratify a whim? 
Or lies there far beyond 
My very deepest thought, 
Some blessing that awaits 
My tardy footsteps still? — 
A something hidden here 
Within the infinite, — 
Some blessing, let me trust, 
Some blessing in disguise. 
If so, a welcome then. 
To all that Age can bring, 
That death may sooner come 
And claim me as her own! 
And while grave doubts arise 
Amid this crumbling clay, — 
And boding images 
Around me flaunt their wares, — 
Forever still I find myself 
Repeating o'er and o'er, 
And ever, o'er and o'er: 

May I not live again, dear Lord? 
May I not live again 
In some celestial realm, 



A Whistling Farmer 387 

Where sorrows never come 

To cloud my after years, 

Nor fear, nor pain, nor death 

May lay their blighting hands 

On aught that I possess? 

This sturdy manhood gone, 

This buoyant spirit crushed, 

This vitalizing force 

A remnant of the past! 

And all of these as well, — 

This fast decaying bulk. 

And dwindling energies 

Of limb and frame and brain, — 

Aye, that's it, — at last! 

This poor, deluded brain. 

And failing faculties ! 

This store of reason gone. 

This citadel of earth 

That stood upon the sand, — 

This fortress of the soul 

In mute submission now 

To God's eternal law; 

This thing of grasp and strength 

That sat in judgment long 

And bowed him down to none! 

But now, — alas for this! — 

This ruined castle here. 

This glimpse of glories gone, 

This wreckage strewn around 

In moldering decay ! 

This monumental mind, 

This councilor of State, 

This king upon his throne, 

How pitiful he seems 

With every vestment gone. 

How like he is to-day 



388 A Whistling Farmer 

How like a little child 
That's lost upon the lawn! 
How like a suckling babe 
That ever cries aloud 
In searching for its Ma! 
And, too, this bleeding lung, 
And palpitating heart, — 
For all of these have come 
To reckon with the years; 
And turning, one and all. 
They call them out aloud 
For help that lies beyond 
The puny hand of man. 

May I not live again, dear Lord,- 
May I not live forever? 



MEMORIES 

To-day I was thinking. 
And dreaming, and drinking 
A wee little draught 

From the dregs of the past, 
"When o'er me came dashing, 
And leaping, and crashing, 
Some scenes from my childhood, 

In years that have passed. 

'Oh, sweet is the childhood 
Of dreamland and wildwood!" 
Transfixed by its beauties 

I, whispering, said; 
While onward before me, 
Around me, and o'er me, 
An endless procession 

Of memories sped. 



A Whistling Farmer 389 

Companions of past time, 
Alas! since the last time 
I met you at evening 

And bade you farewell, 
So many have left me 
And sorely bereft me, — 
I 'm lost in my sorrows 

And scarcely can tell. 

And yet, of this number 
A-gone and a-slumber. 
Who early in manhood 

Were called to their rest, 
I '11 mention Frank Clayton 
And Everet Dayton, — 
And one was my lover, 

The truest and best. 

And others before me, 
Around me, and o'er me. 
In memory's fancy 

I saw in the crowd; 
With jesture and smiling, 
My spirit beguiling, 

And some in the flesh yet. 

And some in the shroud. 

And, oh ! for this childhood 
Of dreamland and wildwood 
That haunts us forever 

From evening till daAvn, — 
When storms break around us, 
And problems confound us. 
We seek in our sorrows 

The days that are gone. 



390 A Whistling Farmer 



THE MAID IN BLUE 

Some maids there are who wear the blue, 
Advising us they're always true, 
But, aye, my friends, whate'er you do, 
Beware, beware! 

And when you see this outward sign, 
Let not deception fog your mind 
For, sure, you see, she may design 
To throw you down. 

For once upon a time I knew 
A lady dressed in robes of blue, 
And still, it seems she was not true, — 
For all of that. 

And why ? Just note that human play 
On further down along the way, 
And in the end perchance you'll say: 
''She was a cheat." 

That is, you know, if this be wrong, 
That she unfolds the ways along, 
And here it is, and just as strong 
As one could wish: 

'Twas Betty dear, you've seen her oft, — 
The maid who holds her head aloft. 
And when she speaks, her voice is soft 
As gentle spring. 



A Whistling Farmer 391 

And Betty, once she laid a plan, — 
At least like this the story ran, 
And vows she made she'd have a man 
Of varied worth. 

And yet she failed in some of this, — 
When after years had brought no bliss, — 
In just one way, and that was this: 
A mother's pride; 

A pride, in every child that's born, 
With sprightly moods that may adorn, 
Instead of one that many scorn 
From day to day. 

So, tumbling downward, went her plan, 
Like others since our race began. 
But with her blue she fooled her man, 
And had her way. 

And years before she sought the sod, 
Or yet with age began to nod. 
She made a vow she'd serve her God 
In all she did. 

'For now," said she, "this much I know: 
My Maker doubtless made me so; 
And while I'm here on earth below, 
I'll keep His law. 

'In this, of course, I've smashed the plan 
Conceived by some designing man, 
And from his codes I broke and ran, 
For mercy's sake. 



392 A Whistling Farmer 

''For see, I had to weigh these two, 
To find the path I should pursue: 
And God I chose, and wouldn't you, 
Instead of men? 

''That is, by this I mean to say. 
Where Nature points the better way. 
Her laws I keep, from day to day. 
With all my heart. 

"And here IVe ground my deepest thought. 
And year by year, with patience wrought. 
And this, of late, I've freely taught, 
Without a fear. 

"And not, that I would vengeance wreak. 
On some poor man, that's grown so weak, 
He scarcely can in whispers speak 
Above his breath. 

"For yet, my mate was always good, — 
In this, I must be understood, — 
And still, alas, he never could 
Make glad my heart! 

' ' But this was not in social ways, 
Or vast estates, or gems that blaze. 
But higher up, where childhood lays 
Its smiles around. 

"For we had wealth, far strewn around. 
Extending on, with scarce a bound. 
And marts of trade, in every town 
Of consequence. 



A Whistling Farmer 393 

'And yet, I longed for something more, 
Than bahes like these had brought before, 
And this, I often pondered o'er, 
With deep regret. 



< < 



And once, when I went out to stroll, 
I had a thirsting in my soul, 
And near at hand, I saw my goal, — 
A cultured man. 

And high he was in councils known, 
And there he seemed to stand alone, 
Like to the one who sought a throne,^ 
Whom Brutus stabbed. 



*'And while I faltered in my course. 
And analyzed its every source. 
It plainer grew, with greater force, 
Before my eyes. 

''For this I'd seen so oft before. 
Among the stock that men adore, 
And here this law is practised o'er 
The world at large. 

**And who of this should ever doubt. 
Why, this is but some crying tout. 
And if the truth you'd know about. 
Ask old John Zohn. 

''For he don't know the world is wide. 
And every truth is still denied. 
So you can take the other side. 
And know you're right. 



394 A Whistling Farmer 

**Aiid there he stays, within his groove, 

And loud he vows he '11 never move ; 

Among his stock he might improve, 

With better blood. 

"And more than that: Whatever is found 
Among his buildings strewn around, 
And fence and shed, and e'en his ground, 
Bespeak the man. 

**For nought is there that's ever planned. 
And for our race in every land 
Much better had he been unmanned, 
To stop the breed. 

'*And this I saw when on the farm, 
Ere modesty had brought alarm. 
As when I swung at father's arm. 
And went abroad. 

"Out o'er the pastures, far and near. 
For well I love the stock to hear. 
When every horse and eveiy steer 
Is thoroughbred. 

"And when we'd gone all these to see. 
My father oft has said to me: 
*A11 these have got their pedigree, — 
Which I possess.' 

"And so, I've thought it was my Pa 
Who pointed out this higher law. 
For every scrub was but a straw 
Beneath his feet. 



A Whistling Farmer 395 

"And there I learned this higher worth, 
Of brute creation o'er the earth, 
But of my race, I weep the dearth 
That still prevails. 

"And in these things I'd have you see 
My thought was not alone for me. 
But down through all posterity 
The end I sought. 

"And when my childhood was no more, 
The things I learned in youth before 
How oft they rapt upon my door, 
I need not tell. 

"For now, it was like this, you see. 
My husband was not made for me. 
But this at first I failed to see, 
Until too late. 

"And there I was tied up so tight, 
For good, or bad, or wrong, or right. 
Before the law, I dared not fight 
The man I had. 

"For he, — full well I knew he could 
Support his claims as matters stood, 
And in the courts, of course I should 
Forever loose. 

"And then I'd sob myself to sleep. 
And wring my hands and often weep. 
For this one thing, this secret deep, 
I dare not tell. 



396 A Whistling Farmer 

*'But while these mists before me rolled, 
I found my spirit growing bold, 
And unto me this prompter told 
Another way: 

**The ways of darkness strewn around 
Among all classes that abound, 
Which many of my race have found 
Before my day. 

"And while I hid my face in shame. 
More closely yet this spirit came. 
And spoke to me of lasting fame 
Within my reach. 



( ( 



And when all this I plainly saw, 
More firmly yet I set my jaw, 
And there I stood, and dared the law 
Upon the books. 

And now, perhaps it's best I should 
Explain so I'll be understood; 
For in these things a wondrous good, 
Or evil, lies. 



''And here is where I'd call the State, — 
For she is powerful and great. 
And swing she can a mighty weight 
For weal or woe. 

''And in our laws, I'd place this need, 
That might with ease be guaranteed. 
As now we do with every breed 
Of stock we have, 



A Whistling Farmer 397 

''And not that I would still retain 
Those things that leave a lasting stain, 
But something else, that seems so plain 
That all should see. 

''And every man that's fit to be 
Connected with maternity. 
The records on the books, you see. 
Would show all this. 

"But now, the way our race is farmed, 
The maid it is, that's most alarmed, 
And in this fray, she's poorly armed 
To meet the foe. 

"For in the male the germ is found, — 
Where higher qualities abound, — 
And motherhood, she's like the ground 
That rears the seed. 

"But equal still, within her sphere. 
And greater oft she doth appear, 
As when the child her hand must rear 
And shape its course. 

"And why should we endure this snare, 
When aims in life will never square 
With freckled face and crimson hair, 
And all of that? 

"And what of sickly children, such, 
And whimperings at every touch, 
And weaklings all that use a crutch 
Continually ? 



398 A Whistling Farmer 

''And what of all this poisoned train 
Transmitted down to youth again, 
That points to countless millions slain 
From age to age? 

''Is this a lawful husband sent, 
That brings a life of discontent, 
And why in law should this be meant, 
And stand the test? 

"And this is why I'd call the State, 
To sponsor every bantam-weight; 
And free the maid, and let his fate 
Be what it might. 

"And thus an outline of my plan. 
And while it seems a baleful ban, 
I'd force this scrub to be a man, 
Or stand aside. 

"And by such means I'd build a race, 
So strongly built and full of grace. 
Ere long, you'd see them take their place 
And rule the world. 

"But now, instead, instead, alas. 
One clinks his gold, we let him pass, 
And puny man, or braying ass. 
It matters not. 

"And so we have a mongrel horde, 
Outbulging some, much like a gourd; 
And others lank as any sword 
That children wear. 



A Whistling Farmer 399 

"And some are short, and some are long, 
And some are weak, and some are strong. 
And such a God-forsaken throng 
I shame to tell. 

''To you, who stand before my child, 
And point him out as one defiled. 
With calmness, and my face unriled, 
I answer back: 

** Whatever I've done, I had to do, 
And this I hate much more than you, 
But could I stop, and still be true 
Unto my race? 

*'Nay, nay! For this was not the plan, 
Of Him who spoke and said to man: 
'Go forth and subjugate the land 
And all that is. 

" 'And green the hills, and prove their worth, 
And till and rear for home and hearth, 
And fructify the whole of eai*th, 
And make it glad.' 

"And what He said was doubtless true, 
In ages old or ages new, 
But weakness here can never do 
"What God designed. 

"But men, — as yet the laws they make. 
And wink they do at every rake. 
And while his coin they gladly take, 
They pass him on. 



400 A Whistling Farmer 



{{ 



But wait awhile. Another day 
Is coining fast, and means to stay, 
And when it comes, we'll drive away 
This bastard child. 

'More light!' the cry,— 'More light for all!' 
Storm-swept around us comes the call, 
That none, as I, maf stumbling fall 
And be disgraced. 

'But while these things arise and stand, 
Like haunting ghosts in every land. 
High time it seems that some one planned 
A better way. 

'For we've a pride, as well we ought. 
In all this workmanship that's wrought. 
But man, he spends near all his thought 
In other ways. 

' And ^ there's his horse that weighs a ton, 
And by his side, that puny one, 
And things like this are being done 
In every land. 

Likewise his vineyards over there. 
Where he has made improvements rare, 
And every peach, and every pear, 
They look to him. 

'And, give him but a place to start. 
In anj^ field of useful art, 
And Godlike here he plays a part, — 
Supremely grand. 



A Whistling Farmer 401 

"But when he comes to face his own, 
As all the past has clearly shown, 
With doubtful look and mumbling tone. 
He turns away, — 

*'As though his child were lower down, 
Than fruits or grains upon the ground. 
Or horse, or hog, or barking hound. 
That gets his care. 

"And what he needs, this reckless dolt, 
He needs some one his mind will jolt, 
And turn his thought from calf and colt 
Toward his child. 

"And when I muse thefee things upon, 
So oft I think of old John Zohn, 
Of what a jinx, and what a don 
The old man was. 

"And there he sat before his jug. 
And all the past he loved to hug, 
And, filling high his foaming mug. 
He drank to this. 

"And so he lived his life along. 
Unmoved by reason clear and strong. 
Nor could he see a single wrong 
In what he did. 

"And every act that backward lay. 
In some remote antiquity. 
With frenzied speech, I've heard him say: 
* Its holy ground ! ' 



402 A Whistling Farmer 

' ' But now he 's gone, and in his place 
Another one has come to face 
The greatest problem of our race, 
Since we began. 

''And this, because we fail to see, 
That we ourselves would better be, 
If we would only prune the tree 
That bears the seed. 

"But while, as now, our efforts fail, 
And children oft are weak and pale, 
No grief ahead can e'er avail 
To right this wrong. 

"Nor may we hope that drugs and skill, 
Nor doctor quack upon the hill, 
Can ever give our little Will 
A chance to live ; 

"Or drive these shadows from his room. 
And give his cheeks a ruddy bloom. 
While death stands gloating o'er his tomb, 
* And points to us, 

"And says, with grimness on his face: 
'Much worse this is than deep disgrace, 
For thou hast sold thy child and race 
For paltry gain.' 

"And to you all I lay this deed, — 
The fruits alone of selfish greed. 
While one you loved stood by to plead 
A higher law. 



A Whistling Farmer 403 



<( 



And pausing now, I leave tliis thought, 
That reason to my senses brought, 
And should my lesson come to naught, 
I'll rest content, — 

'Content to know, for what IVe done, 
I've bared my heart to every one, 
That I might rear this noble son 
And go my way. 

'And, go my way, the way I know 
Reformers all have had to go. 
But what of this, when one can show 
A leader born? 



"And so I see a brighter rift 
Among these clouds that darkly drift, 
Forever on, and onward swift. 
Around my race, — 

"A rift of gladness, clear and bright. 
That sweeps my being with delight. 
And makes the day, and makes the night 
The same as one ; 

* * The same for all who seek the good. 
Expressed in yearning motherhood. 
And by this thought IVe always stood. 
To force reforms. 

*'A stronger male, a nobler mate. 
To guard the destiny of State, 
And make our country truly great. 
In sturdy menP' 



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